Anti-Ice

by Stephen Baxter

  Then, blessed relief!—the motors reduced. Though the rockets continued to fire at a subdued level, it was as if a vast weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I cautiously pushed my face away from the floor, got to my hands and knees, and then to my feet—and surprised myself to find I was standing!

  “Sir Josiah! We are no longer floating…”

  He lay in his couch, lightly playing his control levers. “Oh, hullo, Ned; I’d quite forgotten you were there. No, we are no longer in free fall. I decided that boldness was the best course of action. So I launched us directly at the lunar surface, from which we were in any event a mere few thousand miles—”

  “I was quite crushed against the plates.”

  He looked at me in some surprise. “Were you? But the thrust was only a little more than a terrestrial gravity.” His look turned to sternness. “You have become weakened by the floating condition,” he said. “I warned you that you should maintain your exercise regime, as I have done; it is a wonder your bones, reduced to brittleness, did not crumble to dust.”

  I framed a reply, which would have touched on the reasons for my abandonment of his routine—namely the several days I had spent as an invalid following my supposedly heroic jaunt into space—but I forbore. I said, “And then you turned the ship around.”

  “Yes; now we are falling backside first toward the Moon,” he confirmed cheerfully. “The thrust you feel is about the gravitational acceleration we should experience on the surface of the Moon, which has been computed to be a sixth part of Earth’s. I have reduced our speed to an acceptably low level, and now I am firing the rockets in order to keep our speed constant.” He fixed me with a quizzical eye. “I presume you understand the dynamics of our situation?—that the equality of lunar gravity and the rocket thrust is no coincidence?”

  “Perhaps we could go over the theory later,” I said drily. I raised myself to my toes and bounced up and down on the deck; in my enfeebled state even this fractional gravity felt significant, but I was able to jump easily into the air. “So this is how it would feel if one could walk around on the Moon?”

  “Quite so.” Now he craned back his neck and peered into his periscope. “Now I must fix on our landing site. We will land amid lunar mountains, during a sunset.”

  Clinging to the couch I turned to look through the windows. The sky above, away from the Sun, was utterly dark; and as we were descending toward the Moon’s hidden face Earth herself was concealed from us now. All around us gaunt fingers of rock, shattered in that ancient explosion, reached serrated edges toward us, and shadows pooled like spilt blood.

  I asked, “Why not land in a daylit area? Those shadows must make a choice of a safe landing spot virtually impossible.”

  With some impatience Traveller replied, “But the Phaeton has not been designed for extended jaunts on the lunar surface, Ned! Recall that while she is in space the craft must rotate continually to avoid one side or the other overheating in the Sun’s rays. Here, such rotation will not be possible—yet the solar rays will be just as intense as between worlds. I would hope that our stay here, if the Lord allows us to survive our landing, will not encompass more than a few hours; but even that length of time in the pitiless glare of the Sun would rapidly cause our fragile vessel to burn up. And in the lunar night we would freeze solid. No; our best hope is that I can place us with some fraction of our surface in shadow, and the rest in the sunlight, so that we attain some balance between fire and ice.”

  We sank into the lunar landscape. Tumbled mountains rose around us, and wisps of dust fled from beneath us, agitated by the nearness of our rocket nozzles.

  I began to believe I might live through this.

  The sound of the rockets, which had been a steady, deep-chested roar, now coughed uncertainly and died away. I turned with a wild hope. Were we down? Then I stared at my feet, for, to my horror, they were leaving the deck. “Traveller!” I screamed. “I am floating once more!”

  “Our fuel is gone, Ned,” he said calmly. “We are falling freely toward the lunar surface. I have done my best; now we can only pray.”

  The lunar landscape rushed to meet us, tilting.

  A thousand questions washed through my mind. How far had we been from the surface when the engines failed? And how quickly would one accrue speed, falling through the Moon’s enfeebled gravity? What size of impact could the Phaeton withstand before she split open like an egg and tumbled us all, warm and soft and helpless, out on to the cruel lunar rocks?

  There was a grind of metal on rock.

  I was hurled to the deck once more. I heard a smashing of glass, a ripping of cloth and leather. The deck tilted crazily, and I slid along it for several feet, fetching up at last against a bank of instruments. Then the deck came back to a level. I pressed my face to the riveted floor, waiting for the moment when the hull burst and the air was sucked for the final time from my lungs…

  But the noise of our impact died away; the ship settled a little further into whatever rocky cradle it had carved for itself. A great hush fell over the craft. But there was no rush of air, no more tearing of metal; I was still alive, and breathing as comfortably as I ever had.

  I climbed slowly to my feet, mindful of the weak lunar gravity. Traveller stood on his couch, abandoned restraints coiled around his feet; with hands on hips and stovepipe hat fixed jauntily in place, he peered out at his new domain.

  I climbed up beside him, with little effort; I saw how his frock coat had been torn down the back, and how blood seeped steadily down his wrinkled cheek from a cut to the temple.

  A city of rock lay all around us. Shadows fled from a Sun which was barely hidden behind a distant peak. The place was airless, desolate, utterly forbidding of human life—and yet conquered.

  “Dear God, Traveller, you have brought us to the Moon. I could compliment your skill as a pilot, your genius as an engineer—but surely it is your sheer nerve, your audacious vision, which shines out above all.”

  He grunted dismissively. “Pretty speeches are for funerals, Ned. You and I are very much alive, and we have work to do.” He pointed to the Sun. “Another six to eight hours, I should say, and that Sun will be hidden behind the spire, not to reappear for a full fortnight, and we shall slowly but surely freeze solid. We need water, Ned; and the sooner we get out there and bring it in the sooner Pocket can brew us a healthy pot of tea and we can set off for Mother Earth!”

  Despite the feebleness of the gravity I felt as if I should fall, so weak did every one of my joints become. For once more Traveller had looked ahead in a manner which evaded me. Even if bucketfuls of precious water lay just behind those rocks over there, one of us would have to leave the craft and fetch it in. And I knew that could only be me!

  10

  AN ENGLISHMAN ON THE MOON

  Traveller unfurled a rope ladder and we rejoined our companions in the Smoking Cabin. There we found an atmosphere of euphoria, aided by the deck’s noticeable tilt which leant an air of enchantment to the proceedings. Traveller and his manservant settled down to opening up the access to the lower compartment of the craft. The sullen Bourne was staring out of the windows at the tumbled lunar landscape. Holden was bounding about the Cabin; with whoops of pleasure he launched himself five or six feet into the air before settling back to the deck, as gentle as a rotund autumn leaf. I could not help but smile at the crimson glow of his face. “My word, Ned, these lunar conditions are enchanting; it’s exactly like being a child again,” he said.

  Holden was all for breaking out the brandy and celebrating our successful conquest of the Moon, but Traveller would have none of it. “There is no time for frivolities,” he admonished the journalist. “This is not a picnic; we have a few hours in which to win the struggle for our very survival.” He looked at me with something resembling concern—although he might have been regarding some fragile but vital component of machinery. “Ned, your comfort is of the essence now. Would you care for some tea, or even a light meal, to fortify yourself bef
ore your adventure?—and I would strongly recommend, as before, purging your system before venturing from the craft. Pocket!”

  And so it was that I, surrounded by my companions and sitting in a comfortable chair, bit into sandwiches of cucumber and tomato and sipped a blend of the finest Indian teas—while all around me the desolation of the Moon, lifeless and cold, stretched to the horizon!

  Though I tried, I found it impossible to purge my bowels as Traveller had recommended.

  Then, all too soon, I was climbing once more into the stinking confines of Traveller’s leather air suit. The hose which brought air to the suit—and which I had severed during my perilous entry into the Bridge—had been repaired by Pocket. Traveller and the others assembled items of equipment. I was given a length of rope to knot around my waist, a small electrical lantern improvised from one of the Bridge’s lesser instruments, and an ice pick made from Traveller’s stock of spare parts. Traveller rigged up a bag from the oilcloth which had once covered the floor. This bag, a substantial affair about four feet wide, was double-walled, and between the walls of cloth Sir Josiah inserted cushion stuffing. This satchel was intended for me to lug water ice about the lunar surface, and, said Sir Josiah, the purpose of the stuffing was to provide the precious substance with some protection from the rays of the sun.

  I fixed the axe and lamp to my waist, so as to leave my mittened hands free for my climb down to the surface, and suspended the bag by two straps from my back in the manner of an outsize knapsack.

  Holden began to argue that the significance of the moment—man’s first steps on the surface of another world—was such that I should spend some time on some form of ceremonial.

  “Out of the question,” Traveller snapped. “We don’t have time for such nonsense. Ned is going out to save our lives, in conditions of severe hazard; not to stand on his hands and do tricks for the King.”

  Holden bristled. “Sir Josiah, despite the importunate nature of our journey, we have nevertheless succeeded in landing where no explorer has arrived before. And we therefore have the duty to claim this lunar continent in the name of the Empire. I would remind you that young Ned is a representative of His Majesty’s government. Perhaps the raising of the Union Flag over the dust of the Moon—”

  Bourne barked short laughter. “How like you British that would be. How obscene to desecrate such a place with your ugly flag.”

  Holden drew himself up, thrusting his pot belly out before him. “The very objections of the Frenchie, Sir Josiah, show that such a course would be eminently suitable.”

  Traveller had been working at my suit seals. Now he straightened up and rested his hands on his hips, leaving me and Pocket to struggle alone. “Holden, I have never listened to such asinine balderdash. I have two objections. First, thanks to the airlessness of the lunar surface, there would be no wind to support your flag. It would hang for all eternity, limp and helpless; is this a suitable symbol of the Empire? Of course we could prop it open with some sort of crutch—a metal rod, perhaps…” He laughed. “Who but the most pompous ass would consider such a course? And in any event, my second objection is rather more conclusive: it is that I do not carry flags of any description on this craft; not the Union Flag, not the tricolore, not any nation’s flag. So unless you are a nimble seamstress, Mr. Holden, I suggest your ambition will remain unfulfilled.”

  “And,” said Bourne, “the more dignity we will retain for that.”

  But Holden would not accept this point of view; and soon a three-cornered debate between Holden, Bourne and Traveller was raging. Meanwhile I had completed my enrobement and was standing waiting with Pocket, helmet tucked under my arm, for my adventure to begin.

  After some minutes I lost patience. I raised the globe helmet in both hands and with a dramatic flourish brought it crashing down on the glass case which contained Traveller’s model of the Great Eastern. The debate was stilled at once, and Pocket set to work with dustpan and brush to retrieve the shattered glass. With my mittened hand I reached into the ruin and extracted the model ship; it was perhaps three feet long, and I handled it with great care, endeavoring not to damage any of the detailed working. “Sir Josiah, you will forgive my impulsive and destructive act. Gentlemen, since it is I who must venture beyond these walls, it is I who should decide on the ceremonial gesture to be made.

  “I will carry this model of Brunel’s great ship and leave it in some appropriate place. This should take no more than a moment, and it will satisfy all our purposes. Holden, the Eastern is one of the Empire’s greatest engineering achievements, and thus symbolizes the great civilization which has reached this pinnacle. Sir Josiah, you will surely endorse a memorial on this distant plateau to the engineer who has inspired and informed much of your work. And Bourne: I hope you will join with me in regarding this model as a symbol of the endless inventiveness and enterprise of man, which has brought us even to this astonishing land.

  “And if our venture should fail,” I went on, somewhat surprised at my own eloquence, “then let some future generation of mankind find this artifact and wonder at those who might have brought it here.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Holden said, “Well done, Ned. You’ve put us in our place.”

  “Are we ready to proceed?”

  Traveller indicated the air cupboard with a flourish. “All is prepared, Ned.”

  I nodded. “There is something I would like to request first, however…”

  * * *

  Once more the helmet was screwed over my head, enclosing me in a dismal miniature universe dominated by the tang of copper, the stale taste of pumped air, and the sound of my own ragged breathing. I climbed into the coffin-like air cupboard. After final handshakes from my companions—my huge mittens enclosed their tiny hands—the heavy hatch was closed down, excluding me from the cozy warmth of the Cabin. I hesitated for some moments, clutching the Eastern model against my leather vest; then, grabbing my courage, I grasped the wheel set in the hatchway below me and turned it with resolution.

  After three or four turns the seal was broken and I heard the final sigh of atmosphere being expelled into the airless lunar environs. My joints stiffened as the suit expanded to the limits of its flexibility.

  Then, at last, the hatch swung open, and I found myself staring down at a square yard of lunar soil.

  This ground, some ten feet below me, looked fairly even, yet it was strewn with sharp-edged pebbles which cast long shadows in the sunlight; and the shadows were as black as ink. This cruel sharpness, and the unwavering stillness in the lack of air, spoke instantly to me of my un-Earthly situation, and I spent some minutes with the blood pounding through my ears simply inspecting that patch of soil.

  At length I found the strength to proceed. I pulled a rope ladder from the air cupboard and let it unravel. Then I swung my legs down through the hatch and proceeded to climb down, pausing after a few rungs to pick up the Great Eastern. When my head cleared the hatchway my helmet was filled with dazzling sunlight which caused my eyes to smart; thereafter I took care to avert my eyes from the naked Sun, which lay dangerously close to the horizon.

  I paused on the last rung above the ground, with my foot poised above the lunar soil. A sense of pride and occasion swept over me. That it should have been me to whom the honor had been granted of first walking on the surface of another world! I reflected on the strange chain of accidents which had led me to this point, and wondered briefly how things might have been different had it not been for that greatest accident of all, which is anti-ice. Might men have reached the Moon nevertheless? Surely a way would have been found, based upon rockets of a type not yet dreamed of; although it would have taken many more years—perhaps even until the turn of the century into the twentieth—before a successful voyager reached so far. Still, as in all things industrial and technological, Great Britain would have led the way in this parallel adventure, and so some other Briton—perhaps better prepared than I—would have stood at the foot of another ladder.


  I indulged in a moment of self-pride and wished that the fair Françoise could raise her eyes from the troubled fields of France and look across space to see me in this moment of celestial glory. But this conceit did not survive a moment’s reflection on the extraordinary historical significance of my situation. To set foot on another world was surely the most significant achievement in human development since the Ark—or, if Sir Charles Darwin is to be believed, since our monkey forebears desisted from hurling bananas at each other and climbed down from the trees to walk upright on the land. So, as I pressed my leather slipper into the firm, gravel-like soil, I said this prayer, unheard by any other human soul: “Lord, with this single step, like Noah I walk upon a new continent delivered to us in your grace; and I carry the hopes of all mankind with me as I take it.”

  I stood unsupported on the lunar soil, connected to the Phaeton only by a length of air hose. I could feel the keenness of jagged pebbles through my slippers; it was like walking on the breast of a young beach. I plotted each step with circumspection, for I was very fearful of rupturing the suit or the air hose.

  Clutching my model ship, and with the axe and Ruhmkorff lamp bouncing against my leg, I walked down a slope into the lunar silence for some thirty feet—my hose extended only forty feet in total—and looked about me.

  The landscape was a desolation of ruined and smashed rocks; these varied from pebbles to boulders far larger than the ship. The rubble extended to a horizon which, thanks to the Moon’s small radius, appeared surprisingly close—a phenomenon which gave rise to the illusion that I was crossing the summit of a broad hill.

  The walls of Traveller Crater were, of course, invisible to me, lying many thousands of miles away in every point of the compass.

  The rubble-strewn floor was not level. It featured many hills, or hummocks; these were low, circular domes of a surprising uniformity of shape, although their size varied greatly, with the smallest scarcely taller than I was and the largest reaching perhaps fifty feet from the common level and stretching a good eighth of a mile from side to side. There must be, I speculated, some volcanic explanation for these configurations. In the invigorating lightness of the lunar gravity I imagined bounding across this landscape, leaping from summit to summit with the grace of a goat. But, of course, I was restrained by my air-carrying tether, and I was nervous in any event of the integrity of my suit.