Fred had forgotten the lectures. He'd spent most of his vacation months on a tour of clubs that wanted to hear all about space from the boy who'd landed on the Moon first. It had paid most of his expenses at the Academy, even leaving a healthy surplus which he'd sent to the general fund being raised to help the first colonists on the Moon. He wasn't ashamed of the lectures, though he liked the feeling of attention people gave him almost as much as he liked the fees.
"I wasn't thinking of myself," he said hotly. "My father can read the papers, too, you know."
For a second, Wickman seemed to soften. Then his sneer returned. "You should have thought of that four years ago, Moon-boy," he snapped. "You should have stayed on the Moon, out of his hair."
He moved off to the side, away from Fred and began talking to the co-pilot. A few minutes later, the elevator came down to lift them to the entrance of the ship's final stage. They went through the air lock and into the tiny passenger and control cabin, to strap down in the hammocklike seats and await take-off.
Wickman sat across the narrow aisle, directly behind the co-pilot's seat. A third man sat behind Fred. He was a small, wizened brown man who seemed too old for space, but he must have passed medical inspection to be here. He looked like a Hindu, Fred decided—probably someone from the World Congress. The man sat back now, his eyes closed, and a look of complete joy on his face.
Abruptly, the small man seemed to feel Fred looking at him. He opened startlingly dark eyes and nodded. "Ah, yes. Ramachundra is going into space. To see the stars and the Moon and the cosmos in its true glory. And perhaps even to go as far as the Moon. Yes."
Fred smiled, remembering his own first trip up and how excited he'd been. He'd dreamed of reaching the
Moon, too. And however badly he'd done it, he actually had walked on the surface of Earth's satellite. Maybe he should have remained there, as Wickman had suggested.
It hit him then, the idea that had crept into his mind before. The Moon! He'd been denied his chance to be a pilot, and he could only be a nuisance on the Station. There was no place in space for him—except on the Moon. If he could get back there somehow . . .
It wouldn't be easy, though. His only chance was probably with the expedition, if he could persuade them to take him. It was a big if. With only three days until the expedition left, the crews and personnel had probably been completed, and he had no skills other than his ability to pilot a ship, now officially denied him.
The pilot put down his radio microphone and called out. "Ten seconds. Five. Three. Two. One."
That was all that remained of the old count-down routine. At zero second, there was a rumbling roar from the rear and the big ship seemed to teeter. It came up from the pad, flame blazing behind it, picked up speed, and streaked toward space.
Chapter 4- Last Chance
fred had almost forgotten the savage acceleration of the big ships. Here there was no mild feeling of triple weight, but a force that seemed to be bone-crushing. There was a moment of relief when the first stage burned out and dropped off, another at the release of the second. The last thrust, over in seconds, from the third stage's rocket motors was worst of all; then the blast ended and they were suddenly weightless and rising smoothly.
Fred stretched out and unbuckled the straps, holding himself in position with one hand as he turned back to Ramachundra. Greenhorns were usually scared when the first sensation of weightlessness hit them, making them feel they were falling endlessly. Some were sick, and a few even went into convulsions, though the medical examinations eliminated most of those who could not adapt to space.
Ramachundra met his gaze with a beatific smile. "Ah, yes. A glorious thing to be free of gravity, is it not?" He had unbuckled his own straps and now drifted off the seat, holding on with a thumb and finger. "It is as if one
50
were floating astrally outside the body. I have dreamed of this, yes."
Wickman chuckled approvingly. "You're doing great, sir, I thought this was your first trip up."
"True, But since the first tiny satellite crossed over the skies of my country, I have been here in my thoughts. And I have prepared. Ah yes, I have prepared."
"How?" Fred wanted to know. So far as he knew, there was no good way of preparing for space, except by making trips into it.
The smile deepened. "By a means of my own country, young sir. You may know it as yoga. Oh, no, I see your face shows disbelief. I do not mean the mystic ideas, but the exercises that give one control over the body. Like this, yes."
Without letting go of the seat, the thin, frail-looking man seemed to bend and twist in the air. His legs slid up around his neck until his ankles were clasped together. With a fluid ease, he returned to his former position. The motion had been so smooth it hardly seemed to disturb the position of his torso.
"And there are breathing exercises and many others," Ramachundra said triumphantly. "Until the mind controls all the body. The mind is not afraid of space—that is for the body. You see, perhaps the great technology of the West still has a little to learn from the East. Yes?"
It was a surprising theory on how to adapt to weightlessness. Yet there was a certain amount of sense to the idea. Maybe the Academy had been missing a bet by not having a good course in yoga exercises. Fred kept a doubtful eye on the man for a while, but as the minutes passed he decided Ramachundra really was ready for space.
Anyhow, he had his own problems. One of them was how was he going to explain everything to his father? Colonel Halpern had never understood his son, but Fred knew that his father loved him, somewhere down under the correct military bearing. His expulsion would be a heavy blow to the older man.
The ship glided on effortlessly, losing speed slowly as the minutes passed and they neared the orbit of the Station. Finally, the pilot made the short blast needed to correct their speed and course to that of the Station's orbit. They came to rest a few hundred feet away.
Up here, the big doughnut structure looked huge. More than two hundred feet from rim to rim, it turned slowly around a hub to produce a slight outward force that gave its occupants a sense of gravity. It gleamed brilliantly white in the sunlight, with a little of the immense globe of Earth showing beyond it.
A sausage-shaped space taxi was approaching the ship from the Station and Fred heard it touch against the hull. There was the sound of the airlock being drawn inward, while the taxi's nose exactly filled a silicone ring around the edges to form a seal against loss of air.
Terry Rodriguez was piloting the taxi, Fred saw as he followed the others into the little craft.
"Hi, Freddy," the man greeted him.
Fred tried to grin naturally as he answered, but he knew he'd failed. From the way Terry carefully did not mention anything about his return, he could tell that the news of his washing out was already all over the Station.
"Is Dad in his office?" he asked.
Terry nodded, avoiding his eyes. "Colonel Halpern says to see him as soon as he's finished with Dr. Ramachundra and Major Wickman. In about two hours."
Fred should have known. His father would naturally take care of business before permitting himself to go into the personal troubles of his son. It hurt, but Fred had learned to be proud of his father's sense of duty.
He went into the hub of the Station and took the elevator "down" toward the rim with the others. Weight was about one-third normal there, and he gratefully drew a breath of the thick air into his lungs. It was tainted with smells of oil and chemicals, of cooking and too many people too close together, but it smelled like home to him. AH the years on Earth with his grandmother and at the Academy had never meant as much to him as had the time he spent here.
He found the little cabin exactly as he'd left it and transferred the few contents of his bag into the sacks or pouches along the wall. He sat on the hammock that served as a bed, adjusting to his surroundings. Then, amazingly, he found he was bored with it. There was nothing here to see, after all. It was still home, but he was four
years older than he'd been when he first lived here. His mind needed more than bare walls and the feeling that he was out in space.
He stood up impatiently and headed for the recreation room where most of the men who were off one of the three shifts and not sleeping spent their time. The rec hall was also unchanged, except for a few worn spots showing in the booths and on the coverings of the stools. He started down the counter toward the coffee machine.
Two men were sitting at the counter, and their voices reached him. One of them dismissed some topic and turned to another. "I hear the Colonel's brat is coming back. Got sacked at school, so he's coming up here again."
"Yeah. He's . . ." The second speaker stopped as he spied Fred out of the corner of his eye. He nudged the other quickly, and swung around on the stool, elaborately casual.
"Hello, Freddy. Heard you were coming back."
Fred forced his feet to go on steadily. "Hello, Dr. Struthers—Mr. Gault. How's the weather below?"
"Today or next year?" Gault asked. It was a standard bad joke on the Station. The two men worked on long-range weather predictions and could usually tell from the cloud patterns what the weather would be next month, but rarely remembered what it was at the moment. They turned back to their coffee, apparently sure Fred hadn't heard them.
He drew a cup of what passed for cocoa here and wandered back to the rear of the rec hall, where a small port gave a view of space.
The three ships of the expedition were there, small in the distance. Few details showed; they were undoubtedly much like the ones used in the first expedition which he'd seen during their construction. A small dot of light moved near them, indicating a taxi was out there, probably carrying materials for stowage. Most of that work must be done by now, he thought.
A face was reflected in the glass beside his own, and Fred turned to see a stranger. The man was perhaps forty years of age, almost completely bald, and wearing huge glasses that made him seem owl-eyed. His features were sharp and seemed chosen at random giving his face an oddly pleasant ugliness. "Sessions," he introduced himself. "I haven't seen you around before, have I?"
Fred shook his head. "No, sir. I'm Fred Halpern, the Colonel's son." He shook the other's hand, grateful that the man obviously had heard nothing of him. Dr. Sessions was the head of the third Moon expedition; he had a reputation, built around extensive scientific work, of being a fabulous money-raiser, an excellent leader, and a top-flight geologist as well. Few real scientists seemed capable of heading an expedition; he was the exception.
"Pretty, eh?" Dr. Sessions asked, pointing to the ships. "Not what they should be. I needed twice the money I could get. But they're still pretty. Weren't you the kid who stole a rocket and made a blamed fool jump to the Moon?" He grinned, a dry, amused twisting of his lips. "Yep. I read the papers, too. Was it worth it?"
Fred shook his head. "No, sir. But I'd like to go back there."
This time the man laughed outright.
"You and how many others?" he asked. "People think there's always room for just one more on a trip such as this. Your father's calling me in to twist my arm about some scheme right now. But I'm already carrying two men more than I should. Darts?"
There was a dart board across the hall, and they went over to it. Sessions was not very good, and Fred was worse, although he'd been an expert once. It took time to get the feel of the game under this gravity, despite his knowledge of how the darts should fly.
Finally, Sessions gave up. "Come and have a talk with me in my cabin tonight, if you get a chance, Fred. I read all the junk in the papers, but I never did find why you made that crazy trip out there. I'm curious."
He wandered off, amazingly relaxed for a man who had a million last-minute details to take care of before the expedition left. Fred went on with the darts, having nothing else to do until the loud-speaker summoned him to his father's office.
When he got there, Colonel Halpern was standing beside his desk, wearing the expressionless mask that he always assumed in trying times. He stepped forward to squeeze his son's hand, then dropped back behind the desk.
The room was thick with tension. Colonel Halpern had never been able to deal with Fred as a youngster; even the most trivial pranks upset him. Oddly, as Fred had grown, his father had found it equally hard to accept the fact that the boy was not still a child. Moments of warmth and affection had been rare. Usually, Fred had been in some minor trouble and the older man had been unable to hide his disappointment or to bring the matter out in the open for frank discussion.
"I guess . . ." Fred began.
His father cut him off. "It's done with and we'll forget it. All those years after your mother died . . . Forget it. It's my fault. We'll find something for you to do down on Earth."
"Earth?" Fred asked incredulously.
The Colonel nodded. "The Station's overcrowded. I can't keep a grown son here. How'd you like to go to MIT? They have the best course in rocket motor design, I understand."
"Dad . . ." Fred began. He couldn't finish.
His father swung back from the desk for a second, staring at a graph on the wall. He cleared his voice and sighed. "Yes, son?"
"I gave most of the lecture money to the Moon Colony Fund," Fred finally said. He couldn't put into words the ideas he wanted to voice. "A good engineering course is expensive."
Colonel Halpern faced him again, straightening resolutely in his chair. "We'll manage. Don't worry about it. We'll find a way. I can still find tuition for my son. Look, we'll talk it over at dinner. Today I'm jammed with business."
At that, Fred thought as he went back toward his cabin, it had gone more easily than most of their recent meetings. Maybe it was because he was older now and had learned not to demand emotions from his father. Or perhaps it was because he'd realized that his father's brusqueness was only a mask hiding the love that he could rarely express.
However, things were worse than Fred had expected. Somehow, he had thought the worst fate for him would be to stay in the Station. He'd never dreamed his dismissal from the Academy would mean his exile to Earth. It meant that his last possible chance was to get on the Moon expedition—and according to Sessions, that was hopeless.
As the day wore on, he could see that his father was right. This was a busy world, with no place for him. He'd been tolerated as a kid, and had even worked at driving the Station's taxi. But now all the jobs were assigned to other men, and he had no skills that were needed here.
He had dinner with his father in the office while they struggled to find something to talk about. They wound up discussing the expedition which was supposed to explore the crust and mineral deposits of the Moon.
"Dr. Sessions tells me he's already overcrowded," Fred said, trying to make conversation.
His father smiled, a little bitterly. "I know. To get extra funds, he has had to take on two extra men from a foundation, so he's overloaded. I was hoping to get a place for Dr. Ramachundra, but that seems hopeless. I don't know—if Ramachundra could get to the Moon and see things as they are . . . Things are going badly at the colony, and I hoped . . ."
He fell silent, clearly bothered with some problem about Ramachundra, and Fred knew enough not to ask about official business. It seemed obvious there was no chance to get any help from his father on the Moon trip. That left only a faint hope which he already knew was futile.
Later, when Fred knocked, Dr. Sessions opened the door of the cabin he was using. He dropped a sheaf of manifold papers onto a shelf which served as his desk and motioned Fred to the hammock. "Go on. I like to stand. Thought you'd forgotten about telling me your story."
"I wasn't sure you really wanted to hear it," Fred answered.
Dr. Sessions laughed. "I'm so busy with useless detail work right now that I'd be glad to have someone read fairy stories to me, Fred. But I've already gotten your story out of Terry Rodriguez. Tell me, did you really think the United States might lose the race to the Moon if they waited for the scheduled trip?"
F
red wound up telling him more of the story than he'd ever told before, including the horrible time when his ship had toppled over in landing on the Moon and he'd been trapped in it for days until he could be rescued. Somewhere along the line, he found himself talking about Goddard Space Academy.
There were openings in the conversation where he could have pleaded to go on the expedition, but he found he couldn't ask. If his father wanted to send Rama-chundra, it would have been disloyal for Fred to beg for a place. Besides, he quickly realized Dr. Sessions was a man who couldn't be swayed easily, no matter how friendly he seemed.
It was too late the next day. Sessions was out with the expedition, solving the final stowage problems. Fred wandered around, more and more aware of being a nuisance aboard the Station. Maybe an engineering degree in rocket motor design would be the answer. It would still have something to do with space, but he couldn't convince himself that was what he wanted.
He turned in early, trying to read, while the gossip of the Station buzzed through his head. Ramachundra was still in love with space, in spite of his disappointment about the Moon trip. Wickman must have gotten the test pilot's job for the Cosmic Egg since Fred saw him leaving in one of the rocketships to Earth, looking pleased with himself. Sessions was planning to load the men of the expedition during the night. And Fred Halpern was going back to Earth. He tossed the book onto a shelf, cut off the light, and tried to sleep.
He was dozing when the emergency gong sounded and a call went out for the Station doctor. Fred got to the rec hall just as a figure, carried on a stretcher, was taken to the infirmary. A minute later, two men, looking shaken and wearing partial spacesuits, came in and headed for the coffee machine.
One of them finally turned to answer the questions being thrown at him. "Some guy from one of the Moon ships. He was crossing from one ship to another, using his rocket pistol for drive. The pistol blew up—defective somehow. Doc says the guy will live, but he's a mess."
Moon of Mutiny Page 4
