“I haven’t any idea,” he said. “But I’m going to hitch on and use our rockets to land you.”
“I do not think it practicable,” said Brown calmly. “I believe the only result of such a course will be the loss of both ships with all hands. I will give you a written authorization to return on my order. But since all my crew can’t return, how many can you take? I have ten married men aboard. Six have children. Can you take six? Or all ten?” Then he said without a trace of emphasis, “Of course, none of them will be officers.”
“If I tried to turn back now, I think my crew would mutiny,” Joe said coldly. “I’d hate to think they wouldn’t, anyhow! We’re going to hook on and play this out the way it lies!”
There was a pause. Then Brown spoke again. “Mr. Kenmore, I was hoping you’d say that. Actually—er—not to be quoted, you understand—actually, intelligent defiance has always been in the traditions of the Navy. Of course, you’re not in the Navy, Kenmore, but right now it looks like the Navy is in your hands. Like a battleship in the hands of a tug. Good luck, Kenmore.”
Joe flicked off the screen. “You know,” he said, winking at Mike, “I guess Brown isn’t such a bad egg after all. Let’s go!”
In minutes, the space tug had a line made fast. In half an hour, the two space craft were bound firmly together, but far enough apart for the rocket blasts to dissipate before they reached the Moonship. Mike returned to the tug. A pair of the big Mark Twenty rockets burned frenziedly in emptiness.
The Moonship was slowed by a fraction of its speed. The deceleration was hardly perceptible.
There were more burnings. Back on Earth there were careful measurements. A tight beam tends to attenuate when it is thrown a hundred thousand miles. It tends to! When speech is conducted over it, the lag between comment and reply is perceptible. It’s not great—just over half a second. But one notices it. That lag was used to measure the speed and distance of the two craft. The prospect didn’t look too good.
The space tug burned rocket after rocket after rocket. There was no effect that Joe could detect, of course. It would have been like noticing the effect of single oar-strokes in a rowboat miles from shore. But the instruments on Earth found a difference. They made very, very, very careful computations. And the electronic brains did the calculations which battalions of mathematicians would have needed years to work out. The electronic calculations which could not make a mistake said—that it was a toss-up.
The Moon came slowly to float before the two linked ships. It grew slowly, slowly larger. The word from Earth was that considering the rockets still available in the space tug, and those that should have been fired but weren’t on the Moonship, there must be no more blasts just yet. The two ships must pass together through the neutral-point where the gravities of Earth and Moon exactly cancel out. They must fall together toward the Moon. Forty miles above the lunar surface such-and-such rockets were to be fired. At twenty miles, such-and-such others. At five miles the Moonship itself must fire its remaining fuel-store. With luck, it was a toss-up. Safety or a smash.
But there was a long time to wait. Joe and his crew relaxed in the space tug. The Chief looked out a port and observed:
“I can see the ring-mountains now. Naked-eye stuff, too! I wonder if anybody ever saw that before!”
“Not likely,” said Joe.
Mike stared out a port. Haney looked, also.
“How’re we going to get back, Joe?”
“The Moonship has rockets on board,” Joe told him. “Only they can’t stick them in the firing-racks outside. They’re stowed away, all shipshape, Navy fashion. After we land, we’ll ask politely for rockets to get back to the Platform with. It’ll be a tedious run. Mostly coasting—falling free. But we’ll make it.”
“If everything doesn’t blow when we land,” said the Chief.
Joe said uncomfortably: “It won’t. Not that somebody won’t try.” Then he stopped. After a moment he said awkwardly: “Look! It’s necessary that we humans get to the stars, or ultimately we’ll crowd the Earth until we won’t be able to stay human. We’d have to have wars and plagues and such things to keep our numbers down. It—it seems to me, and I—think it’s been said before, that it looks like there’s something, somewhere, that’s afraid of us humans. It doesn’t want us to reach the stars. It didn’t want us to fly. Before that it didn’t want us to learn how to cure disease, or have steam, or—anything that makes men different from the beasts.”
Haney turned his head. He listened intently.
“Maybe it sounds—superstitious,” said Joe uneasily, “but there’s always been somebody trying to smash everything the rest of us wanted. As if—as if something alien and hateful went around whispering hypnotically into men’s ears while they slept, commanding them irresistibly to do things to smash all their own hopes.”
The Chief grunted. “Huh! D’you think that’s new stuff, Joe?”
“N-no,” admitted Joe. “But it’s true. Something fights us. You can make wild guesses. Maybe—things on far planets that know that if ever we reach there.… There’s something that hates men and it tries to make us destroy ourselves.”
“Sure,” said Haney mildly. “I learned about that in Sunday School, Joe.”
“Maybe I mean that,” said Joe helplessly. “But anyhow there’s something we fight—and there’s Something that fights with us. So I think we’re going to get the Moonship down all right.”
Mike said sharply: “You mean you think this is all worked out in advance. That we’d be here, we’d get here—”
The Chief said impatiently, “It’s figured out so we can do it if we got the innards. We got the chance. We can duck it. But if we duck it, it’s bad, and somebody else has to have the chance later. I know what Joe’s saying. Us men, we got to get to the stars. There’s millions of ’em, and we need the planets they’ve got swimming around ’em.”
Haney said, “Some of them have planets. That’s known. Yeah.”
“Those planets ain’t going to go on forever with nobody using ’em,” grunted the Chief. “It don’t make sense. And things in general do make sense. All but us humans,” he finished with a grin. “And I like us, anyhow. Joe’s right. We’ll get by this time. And if we don’t—some other guys’ll have to do the job of landing on the Moon. But it’ll be done—as a starter.”
“I can see lots of mountains down there. Plain,” Mike said quietly.
“What’s the radar say?”
Joe looked. Back at the Platform it had shown the curve of the surface of Earth. Here a dim line was beginning to show on the vertical-plane screen. It was the curve of the surface of the Moon.
“We might as well get set,” said Joe. “We’ve got time but we might as well. Space suits on. I’ll tighten up the chain. Steering rockets’ll do that. Then we’ll take a last look. All firing racks loaded outside?”
“Yeah,” said Haney. He grinned wrily. “You know, Joe, I know what I know, but still I’m scared.”
“Me, too,” said Joe.
But there were things to do. They took their places. They watched out the ports. The Moon had seemed a vast round ball a little while back. Now it appeared to be flattening. Its edges still curved away beyond a surprisingly nearby horizon. The ring-mountains were amazingly distinct. There were incredibly wide, smooth spaces with mottled colorings. But the mountains.…
When the ships were 40 miles high the space tug blasted valorously, and all the panorama of the Moon’s surface was momentarily hidden by the racing clouds of mist. The rockets burned out.
Haney and the Chief replaced the burned-out rockets. They were gigantic, heavy-bore tubes which they couldn’t have stirred on Earth. Now they loaded them into the curious locks which conveyed them outside the hull into firing position.
The ring-mountains were gigantic when they blasted again! They were only 20 miles up, then, and some of the peaks rose four miles from their inner crater floors.
The ships were still descending fast. Joe
spoke into his microphone.
“Calling Moonship! Calling—” He stopped and said matter-of-factly, “I suggest we fire our last blast together. Shall I give the word? Right!”
The surface of the Moon came toward them. Craters, cracks, frozen fountains of stone, swelling undulations of ground interrupted without rhyme or reason by the gigantic splashings of missiles from the sky a hundred thousand million years ago. The colorings were unbelievable. There were reds and browns and yellows. There were grays and dusty deep-blues and streaks of completely impossible tints in combination.
But Joe couldn’t watch that. He kept his eyes on a very special gadget which was a radar range-finder. He hadn’t used it about the Platform because there were too many tin cans and such trivia floating about. It wouldn’t be dependable. But it did measure the exact distance to the nearest solid object.
“Prepare for firing on a count of five,” said Joe quietly. “Five…four…three…two…one…fire!”
The space tug’s rockets blasted. For the first time since they overtook the Moonship, the tug now had help. The remaining rockets outside the Moonship’s hull blasted furiously. Out the ports there was nothing but hurtling whitenesses. The rockets droned and rumbled and roared.…
The main rockets burned out. The steering rockets still boomed. Joe had thrown them on for what good their lift might do.
“Joe!” said Haney in a surprised tone. “I feel weight! Not much, but some! And the main rockets are off!”
Joe nodded. He watched the instruments before him. He shifted a control, and the space tug swayed. It swayed over to the limit of the tow-chain it had fastened to the Moonship. Joe shifted his controls again.
There was a peculiar, gritty contact somewhere. Joe cut the steering rockets and it was possible to look out. There were more gritty noises. The space tug settled a little and leaned a little. It was still. Then there was no noise at all.
“Yes,” said Joe. “We’ve got some weight. We’re on the Moon.”
They went out of the ship in a peculiarly solemn procession. About them reared cliffs such as no man had ever looked on before save in dreams. Above their heads hung a huge round greenish globe, with a white polar ice-cap plainly visible. It hung in mid-sky and was four times the size of the Moon as seen from Earth. If one stood still and looked at it, it would undoubtedly be seen to be revolving, once in some twenty-four hours.
Mike scuffled in the dust in which he walked. Nobody had emerged from the Moonship yet. The four of them were literally the first human beings ever to set foot on the surface of the Moon. But none of them mentioned the fact, though all were acutely aware of it. Mike kicked up dust. It rose in a curiously liquid-like fashion. There was no air to scatter it. It settled deliberately back again.
Mike spoke with an odd constraint. “No green cheese,” he said absurdly.
“No,” agreed Joe. “Let’s go over to the Moonship. It looks all right. It couldn’t have landed hard.”
They went toward the bulk of the ship from Earth, which now was a base for the military occupation of a globe with more land-area than all Earth’s continents put together—but not a drop of water. The Moonship was tilted slightly askew, but it was patently unharmed. There were faces at every port in the hull.
The Chief stopped suddenly. A sizable boulder rose from the dust. The Chief struck it smartly with his space-gloved hand.
“I’m counting coup on the Moon!” he said zestfully “Tie that, you guys!”
Then he joined the others on their way to the Moonship’s main lock.
“Shall we knock?” asked Mike humorously. “I doubt they’ve got a door-bell!”
But the lock-door was opening to admit them. They crowded inside.
Commander Brown was waiting for them with an out-stretched hand. “Glad to have you aboard.” And there was a genuine smile creeping across his face.
* * * *
Joe talked with careful distinctness into a microphone. His voice took a little over a second to reach its destination. Then there was a pause of the same length before the first syllable of Sally’s reply came to him from Earth.
“I’ve reported to your father,” said Joe carefully, “and the Moonship has reported to the Navy. In a couple of hours Haney and the Chief and Mike and I will be taking off to go back to the Platform. We got rockets from the stores of the Moonship.”
Sally’s voice was surprisingly clear. It wavered a little, but there was no sound of static to mar reception.
“Then what, Joe?”
“I’m bringing written reports and photographs and first specimens of geology from the Moon,” Joe told her. “I’m a mailman. It’ll probably be sixty hours back to the Platform—free fall most of the way—and then we’ll refuel and I’ll come down to Earth to deliver the reports and such.”
Pause. One second and a little for his voice to go. Another second and something over for her voice to return.
“And then?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Joe. “What day is today?”
“Tuesday,” said Sally after the inevitable pause. “It’s ten o’clock Tuesday morning at the Shed.”
Joe made calculations in his mind. Then he said:
“I ought to land on Earth some time next Monday.”
Pause.
“Yes?” said Sally.
“I wondered,” said Joe. “How about a date that night?” Another pause. Then Sally’s voice. She sounded glad.
“It’s a date, Joe. And—do you know, I must be the first girl in the world to make a date with the Man in the Moon?”
THE INVADERS (1953)
On a certain day—it may be in the history books eventually—Coburn was in the village of Ardea, north of Salonika in the most rugged part of Greece. He was making a survey for purposes which later on turned out not to matter much. The village of Ardea was small, it was very early in the morning, and he was trying to get his car started when he heard the yell.
It was a shrill yell, and it traveled fast. Coburn jerked his head upright from the hood of the car. A whiskered villager with flapping trousers came pounding up the single street. His eyes were panic-stricken and his mouth was wide. He emitted the yell in a long, sustained note. Other villagers popped into view like ants from a disturbed ant-hill. Some instantly ran back into their houses. Others began to run toward the outskirts of the village, toward the south.
Coburn, watching blankly, found himself astonished at the number of people the village contained. He hadn’t dreamed it was so populous. All were in instant frenzied flight toward the mountains. An old woman he’d seen barely hobbling, now ran like a deer. Children toddled desperately. Adults snatched them up and ran. Larger children fled on twinkling legs. The inhabitants of Ardea vanished toward the hills in a straggling, racing, panting stream. They disappeared around an outcrop of stone which was merely the nearest place that would hide them. Then there was silence.
Coburn turned his head blankly in the direction from which they had run. He saw the mountains—incredibly stony and barren. That was all. No, not quite—there was something far away which was subtly different in color from the hillsides. It moved. It flowed over a hill crest, coming plainly from somewhere beyond the mountains. It was vague in shape. Coburn felt a momentary stirring of superstition. There simply couldn’t be anything so huge.…
But there could. There was. It was a column of soldiers in uniforms that looked dark-gray at this distance. It flowed slowly out of the mountains like a colossal snake—some Midgard monster or river of destruction. It moved with an awful, deliberate steadiness toward the village of Ardea.
Coburn caught his breath. Then he was running too. He was out of the village almost before he realized it. He did not try to follow the villagers. He might lead pursuers after them. There was a narrow defile nearby. Tanks could hardly follow it, and it did not lead where they would be going. He plunged into it and was instantly hidden. He pelted on. It was a trail from somewhere, because he sa
w ancient donkey-droppings on the stones, but he did not know where it led. He simply ran to get away from the village and the soldiers who were coming toward it.
This was Greece. They were Bulgarian soldiers. This was not war or even invasion. This was worse—a cold-war raid. He kept running and presently rocky cliffs overhung him on one side, a vast expanse of sky loomed to his left. He found himself panting. He began to hope that he was actually safe.
Then he heard a voice. It sounded vexed. Quite incredibly, it was talking English. “But my dear young lady!” it said severely. “You simply mustn’t go on! There’s the very devil of a mess turning up, and you mustn’t run into it!”
A girl’s voice answered, also in English. “I’m sure—I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“I’m afraid I can’t explain. But, truly, you mustn’t go on to the village!”
Coburn pushed ahead. He came upon the people who had spoken. There was a girl riding on a donkey. She was American. Trim. Neat. Uneasy, but reasonably self-confident. And there was a man standing by the trail, with a slide of earth behind him and mud on his boots as if he’d slid down somewhere very fast to intercept this girl. He wore the distinctive costume a British correspondent is apt to affect in the wilds.
They turned as Coburn came into view. The girl goggled at him. He was not exactly the sort of third person one expected to find on a very lonely, ill-defined rocky trail many miles north of Salonika.
When they turned to him, Coburn recognized the man. He’d met Dillon once or twice in Salonika. He panted: “Dillon! There’s a column of soldiers headed across the border! Bulgarians!”
“How close?” asked Dillon.
“They’re coming,” said Coburn, with some difficulty due to lack of breath. “I saw them across the valley. Everybody’s run away from the village. I was the last one out.”
Dillon nodded composedly. He looked intently at Coburn. “You know me,” he said reservedly. “Should I remember you?”
“I’ve met you once or twice,” Coburn told him. “In Salonika.”
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 77
