Moonrise gt-5

by Ben Bova

His earphones chirped with the signal from one of the minisats. Quickly, Doug plugged his vidcam into the comm port on the belt of his suit and played the tape at top speed. He heard a brief screeching in his earphones, like a magpie on amphetamines, then a verifying beep from the satellite. The data-compressed signal had been received.

  “What about transmitting our claim?” Brennart asked before Doug could report to him.

  “Just did it,” he said. “Squirted the tape to the minisat. When it comes over Moonbase’s horizon it’ll transmit the whole scene to the base.”

  “How soon will that be?”

  Doug made a quick mental calculation. “The satellite orbit is one hour. Should be in forty, fifty minutes.”

  Brennart huffed again. “Plasma cloud might hit by then.”

  “The commsats are hardened, aren’t they?”

  “Up to a point.”

  “Is there a chance the radiation could knock them out before our message reaches Moonbase?”

  “Ever heard of Murphy’s Law?” Brennart replied.

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s all a matter of degree. There’s no such thing as absolute hardening. The minisats are built to withstand a certain level of radiation. If the plasma cloud’s levels are higher, then the satellites will be kaput.”

  “Then we’d be cut off from Moonbase.” Bianca’s voice, filled with apprehension.

  “Until they pop up more satellites, after the storm is over.”

  “I wonder how hardened the Yamagata snooper satellite is,” Doug mused.

  Brennart made no answer and when Doug tried to talk to him he realized that the expedition leader was talking to the ground on a different frequency. Doug switched to that channel.

  “… landing lights haven’t been set up yet,” he heard Killifer’s voice, almost whining. “You told me to get everybody inside—”

  “Never mind,” Brennart snapped. “Turn up the radar beacon to full power. I’d like to have some idea of where the ground is!”

  “Right.”

  Doug knew there were no lights beneath the hopper’s platform. We could crash in this darkness, he realized.

  The little cluster of instruments on the control podium included a laser altimeter, and Doug saw that its digital readout was falling so fast the numbers were almost a blur. Still Brennart did not fire the rocket to slow their descent It’s like parachute jumping, he thought. See how long you cap stay in free-fall before you chicken out and pull the ripcord.

  He felt his heart racing as he clutched the flimsy railing with both hands and marveled at Brennart’s cool while the hopper plunged deeper and deeper into the eternal darkness.

  “Are we there yet?” Bianca’s voice bleated in his earphones. She’s trying to make light of it, Doug thought, but this long free-fall must be bothering her. I wonder how she did on the trip to Moonbase from Earth? She must have been in misery all the way. Greenberg had said nothing since they’d climbed aboard the hopper and damned little before that Doug realized that the nanotech engineer was as closed-mouthed as anyone he had ever met.

  Straining his eyes, Doug peered over the railing into the darkness below. He could make out vague shapes in the darkness, like monsters from a child’s nightmare reaching up to snare him.

  Then a lurch of thrust nearly buckled his knees and the landscape below was briefly lit by the rocket’s silent flame, like a scene suddenly illuminated by a lightning bolt’s flash. Before Doug could blink it was inky dark again and they continued to fall.

  Then another flash and surge of thrust. Then a gentle bump and Doug felt the comfortable reassurance of weight once more. They were on the ground.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Brennart commanded. “Get off and into the shelter.”

  For a moment Doug was transfixed, immobilized with admiration for Brennart’s piloting. The man really is as good as all the stories about him.

  “Move!” Brennart bellowed.

  Almost laughing, Doug knocked down the hopper’s railing and jumped softly to the ground.

  “Which shelter?” Greenberg asked. He had turned on his helmet lamp, Doug saw. So had Brennart. He did the same, then Bianca followed suit.

  “Number four,” said Brennart, pointing with a long arm. “The others are already occupied.”

  They trooped to the airlock, Greenberg in the lead. He may not say much, Doug thought, but he sure makes it clear that he wants to get safely inside.

  “Don’t take off your suits,” Brennart commanded. “Go right through the lock and into the shelter. Leave your suits on.”

  Doug waited for Bianca to go in, then turned toward Brennart.

  “Go on, go on,” the expedition commander shooed impatiently. “We don’t have all damned day.”

  Doug ducked through the airlock hatch, waited for it to recycle, then stepped into the shelter. Bianca and Greenberg were sitting awkwardlyspn the edges of two facing bunks, still encased in their bulky spacesuits, looking like a pair of hunchbacked giant pandas. There were no internal partitions in this smaller shelter; it was merely a dugout for sleeping and eating.

  The pumps chugged and the inner airlock hatch opened to let Brennart step through. He had to bend over slightly to keep the top of his helmet from scraping the shelter’s curving ceiling.

  “Not enough rubble on top of us to provide full shielding,” he explained, “so we stay in the suits until the radiation dies down.”

  “That could be days!” Rhee blurted.

  “We’ll need the extra shielding the suits provide,” Brennart said calmly. “It’ll be uncomfortable but better than getting fried.”

  “And the backpacks?” she asked.

  “We can take off the backpacks and breathe the air in here, but otherwise we will stay buttoned up. Like the man says, better safe than sorry.”

  “What about eating?” asked Doug.

  Brennart turned toward him slowly, his helmet visor staring at him like a blank-eyed cyclops. “We’ll take a quick meal now, before the radiation builds up. After that, I’ll decide when and if it’s safe to open our visors for food.”

  After a heartbeat’s span of silence, Brennart added in a more relaxed tone, “A little dieting won’t hurt any of us.”

  So they grabbed prepackaged meals from the shelter’s food locker and took turns sticking them in the tiny microwave oven.

  “Stand back from the oven. You don’t want to get exposed to any radiation that leaks through,” Greenberg said, so solemnly that Doug couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.

  Brennart raised his visor to eat his meal, and Doug could at last see the man’s face. If Brennart was worried, he didn’t show it. He looked calm; thoughtful, but certainly not jittery.

  “That’s our guide,” he said, pointing to the radiation meter built into the airlock control panel. “That, and our suit patches, are the only way we have of telling how high the radiation level is.”

  The suit patches were cumulative, Doug knew. They changed color with dosage, going from green through yellow to red. Once they turned red you were supposed to get inside shelter, no matter what you were doing out on the surface. He looked down at the patch on his right arm and was startled to see it had already turned a sickly greenish yellow. Just from the work we’ve done outside today, he thought. What color will it be when the radiation cloud hits?

  How can they eat this garbage? Greg wondered as he chewed on the little sandwich. It tasted like sawdust and glue, with a core of hard rubber.

  He felt uncomfortable at the flare party, and most of the people around him seemed uncomfortable in his presence. Jinny Anson was perfectly relaxed, apparently, but the others stiffened visibly as he approached mem. They were friendly enough, but Greg saw them put their drinks down or try to hide them behind their backs. Laughter died out as he came up to a knot of party-goers. People became polite, their smiles strained.

  The new boss, Greg figured. They know I’ll be in charge here in a week, the board chairwoman’s son,
and they don’t know what kind of a boss I’m going to be. Inwardly, Greg frowned at the irony of it. I don’t know what kind of a boss I’m going to be, either. Obviously there’s alcohol in most of those drinks, even though nobody’s offered me any. What else is going down?

  He had made a sort of ragged circumnavigation of The Cave, and ended up back near Anson, who was deep in conversation with a tall, ragged-looking old simp with a mangy beard and sad, baggy eyes. Greg left his dish of unfinished finger sandwiches on the nearest table and went toward her.

  “Here he is,” Anson said as Greg approached them. She waved Greg toward her, then introduced, “Greg Masterson, Lev Brudnoy.”

  The legendary Lev Brudnoy! Greg realized that Brudnoy’s legend was more than twenty years old now. The poor geezer must be pushing sixty, at least.

  “How do you do,” said Brudnoy gravely, extending a calloused hand. His coveralls were a faded olive green, splotched here and there with stains. He was about Greg’s own height, though, and wider across the shoulders.

  “I’m very happy to meet you,” Greg said perfunctorily. Brudnoy’s grip was strong; Greg got the feeling he could have squeezed a lot harder if he’d wanted to.

  “So you are going to be our leader for the next twelve months,” Brudnoy said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I knew your stepfather, Paul Stavenger. He was a good man.”

  Trying not to bristle, Greg said, “I thought it was my father who gave you permission to join Moonbase.”

  With a slow smile, Brudnoy answered, “Quite true. But I never met your father. He never came here and I was never invited to meet him when I visited Earthside.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “I am most indebted to him, of course. And to your lovely mother — whom I also have never met”

  Feeling awkward, Greg tried to change the subject ’I suppose you’ve been here at Moonbase longer than anyone else’ It was inane and he knew it, but Greg couldn’t think of anything else.

  “More than twenty years,” Anson said.

  “Not all that time has been spent here on the Moon, of course’ said Brudnoy. “I visit Earthside each year, as required by our health regulations”

  Greg knew the regulations. They were based on the idea that living on the Moon deconditioned the body for living in Earth’s heavier gravity. Every Moonbase employee was required to undertake an exercise regime to keep muscles and bones strong enough for an immediate return Earthside. ,

  “Yet’ Brudnoy went on, almost wistfully, “my trips Earth-side grow shorter and my stays here grow longer. This is my true home. Earth is a distant dream”

  With a sardonic smile, Greg said, “The food’s better on Earth”

  “Quite true’ Brudnoy agreed.

  “What we grow in our farm is for nutrition, not gourmet taste’ Anson snapped.

  “Mostly soybeans’ said-Brudnoy. “What little variety we have comes from thjem’ Before Greg could comment, he went on, “And green vegetables, of course. We recently introduced carrots, but they aren’t doing too well”

  “Everything else we have to bring up from Earthside’ Anson said defensively. “We have to go for the highest nutritional values per kilo, not taste”

  “That’s obvious’ said Greg.

  Looking nettled, Anson turned to Brudnoy. “He’ll fit right in here; up here ten minutes and he’s already complaining about the food”

  “I can prepare for you a fresh salad’ Brudnoy said, completely serious.

  “A salad?”

  “After all my years of adventuring, I have become a farmer. My true calling: to be a peasant”

  “I’d like to see your farm’ Greg said.

  “Lev’s got a green thumb,” said Anson. “He’ll turn us all into vegetarians one of these days”

  “Can’t we bring meat animals up here?” Greg asked. “Fresh meat would be good”

  “Oh sure’ Anson replied sarcastically. “We’ve got the wide open prairies around here; get some cowboys and a herd of cattle”

  Greg felt his face redden. “Maybe something smaller? Chickens?”

  “Or rabbits’ Brudnoy said. “I remember reading somewhere that rabbits have a high ratio of protein to bone”

  “Okay’ said Greg. “Rabbits”

  “We have to be very careful about what we bring in here’ Anson said sternly. “This is a closed ecology and we can’t afford to endanger it”

  “But rabbits—”

  “Look what they did to Australia”

  “Jinny, my dear’ said Brudnoy, “we would not allow them to run wild and breed at will”

  “We could control them, couldn’t we?” Greg asked.

  Looking completely unconvinced, Anson said, “Well, you’re going to be director. You look into it”

  Turning to Brudnoy, Greg asked, “Could you look into it?”

  “Certainly’ said the Russian. “I would be most happy to”

  Anson’s face eased into a smile. “You’re going to be okay, Masterson. Delegating responsibility already. That’s the mark of a successful manager”

  Greg couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or sincere.

  “Rabbits will be the salvation of Moonbase’ Brudnoy said, with a happy grin on his bearded face. “And I have found my calling!”

  “You have?” Anson asked, looking askance at the Russian.

  “To feed the hungry masses!” Brudnoy said. “To end the dreariness of packaged foods. I will not be a lowly peasant. I will become the master of cuisine for Moonbase”

  “A noble calling said Anson.

  “Thank you!” Brudnoy said to Greg. “You have given me a new purpose in life”

  And he clasped Greg in his long arms with a Russian bear hug.

  “Now what can I do for you in return?” Brudnoy asked once he had released Greg from his embrace.

  Gasping slightly, more with surprise than anything else, Greg stammered, “I… I don’t really know.”

  “I am yours to command,” Brudnoy said. “Call upon me at any hour and I will be at your side”

  With a sloppy military salute, Brudnoy turned abruptly and strode off into the crowd.

  “Is he for real?” Greg asked.

  Anson smiled knowingly. “Lev is as real as they come. If you need any advice about anything, ask him. He’s a lot smarter than he lets on.”

  Greg nodded, not knowing how much he could believe. He looked at the party-goers, still talking and laughing and drinking.

  “I didn’t know that liquor was allowed in the base,” he said.

  “It isn’t,” Anson replied.

  “Do you mean to tell me that there’s no alcohol in those drinks? Nobody’s popping pills or snorting anything?”

  “What I’m telling you,” Anson said firmly, “is that company regulations do not allow alcohol or any other substances that impair judgment or reflexes. We’re even careful with aspirin up here.”

  Greg smirked at her. “Sure. And if I tested a random sampling of your employees’ blood levels—”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” she snapped. “Not here. We judge people by their performance, not by some numbers set down in a book of regulations.”

  “So you wait for somebody to kill himself. And the people around him.”

  “Not at all.” Anson’s voice was calm, reasoned, but benestit it there was stainless steel. “We live and work very close to one another. If somebody sees that someone is too — out of it, let’s say — to do his job, then they don’t let that person start working.”

  “They report him sick?”

  “They send him back to his quarters. Or her. They call for a replacement.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “We pay for performance here. If a person needs a replacement more than twice in a three-month span, we send him back Earthside.”

  “Or her?”

  “Or her,” Anson agreed. “It happens now and then, but not often enough to be a real problem.”
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  “And that’s the way I’m supposed to handle the situation? No matter what the company regulations say?”

  Anson made a small shrug. “That’s the way things have been handled here for years. If you want to change it, that’s your prerogative. You’ll have to do your job in your own way, of course.”

  “Of course,” Greg said. “But your way has been working fine, is that it?”

  Anson smiled prettily. “Don’t fix it if it ain’t broke.”

  MOONBASE

  The party showed not the slightest sign of slowing down. Greg watched, a stranger among the revelers, feeling like a pale and vapid ghost, almost invisible, noticed by the others just enough to make them feel uneasy and move away from him. Even Anson got tired of him and danced off with one of the younger men.

  Terribly self-conscious and ill at ease, Greg made his way through the partying throng to the main exit from The Cave. Stepping through the airtight door into the empty tunnel outside was like stepping from bedlam into blissfully peaceful silence. It felt cooler out in the tunnel, easier to breathe.

  Greg thought for a moment, then strode toward the control center. Make certain it’s really adequately manned, he told himself. Check on the status of the radiation storm, maybe talk with the astronomers back at Tucson.

  The control center was quiet. The big electronic map of the base glowed in the darkened room just as it had before the flare erupted. All three positions at the U-shaped set of comm consoles were occupied. Several of the screens were badly streaked with interference, others were altogether blank. But the three communications technicians were at their jobs, sober and quietly intense.

  The woman in the middle chair turned and saw Greg standing over her. “What do you think-’ Then she saw the nametag on Greg’s coveralls. “Oh! Mr. Masterson, it’s you. I figured it was too soon for my relief.”

  “How’s the link with Brennart’s team?” Greg asked quietly.

  “Something coming through now,” she said, pointing to one of the working screens.

  Bending over her shoulder, Greg saw a pair of spacesuited figures in brilliant sunlight pulling a tube or something from a large gray canister.

  While they fiddled with the tube on the bare rocky ground, another figure in a gleaming white spacesuit with red stripes down its arms and legs walked into the picture.