Then and Now (ss)

by Raymond Z. Gallun

  Then and Now,

  by Raymond Z. Gallun

  Analog Dec. 1977

  Novelette - 11799 words

  All the comforts of home make it

  hard to go out and be a pioneer.

  An hour ago, while the liner they were coming in on was still in space, they had called him again by Visual. Their two faces had formed on the screen. The boy's face hard, reticent, guarding his own judgments. The girl's, dark, eager, humorous, warmly brown-eyed.

  Chester Horton had to laugh. There would be fun, affection, and a poetic quality in the encounter. But grimness, scare, sorrow, and splendor, too. And more. Just how was he supposed to think who these people were? That was an element still bizarre enough to Horton, not only to tie his tongue, but almost to disalign his vision. Damn! Damn!...

  "I can't quite grab everything," he had told those two with high good-spirits over the Visual. "Not sure I want to right away, anyhow. Rather taste it a while. Not using wrong words."

  "We can't grab it either," she had responded in kind. "At least not me... Better, then, to play it out slow. A pledge?"

  "Sure—a pledge," Horton had replied. "Among us three. You—Lois, if I recall?... And you—Arnold?"

  Now Horton was flying in his heli—through warm, sunlit atmosphere—from his villa on the slopes of the Lunar Apennines, to pick up his guests at the Archimedes Spaceport, within the crater of the same name, and diked from the waters of the Imbrium Sea by the lofty, natural ringwall. These were simple, acceptable facts of his action, not usually worth a thought, anymore. But now that he did think back over the decades of change—as circumstances prompted him to do—it was rather wild-seeming, already. Topsy-turvey and...

  He kept considering that pair. Relatives, emerged once more from a discard-bin of almost-forgetfulness that contained many people. He'd been sort of annoyed at first. Nice to find out, though, that he had any family to speak of, anymore... How old had they looked on Visual? Nineteen or twenty?... Good kids... A couple. Mated. Mr. and Mrs., if you wanted to say it in an antique manner... Characteristically vital and competent-appearing... But there was that quizzical warping that his guts didn't want to accept—though not now awfully uncommon.

  Well, he should skip it a little—suffering and enjoying the effect. He'd promised...

  However, there was that further thing. Magnificent, yet almost gruesome. For the past two years, by their own statements, they had been training intensively on Titan, Saturn's big satellite. But they had been there much longer. He might as well agree to himself that they had grown up in that superchilled place. Now they were on furlough, for visiting the Moon and Earth. To experience changes and luxuries known to them only through reports and picturings. Their permitted vacation was one terrestrial month.

  At its end they would be cryogenically frozen. Among thousands of others, gathered from many regions on Earth and elsewhere, they'd be loaded aboard a new kind of ship. They'd be dead for more than a century of subjective transit-time. The revival-rate should be about eighty-five percent. On an Earthlike world, though cooler. Never reached yet except by probes, transmitting back sketchy data at the slow speed of light. That limiting velocity might never be surpassed, circumvented, or even quite approached, in spite of old dreams, and some hopeful chinks in the physics of the universe.

  If those two awakened, that raw, primitive planet—orbiting the red dwarf Barnard's Star—could still kill them. Interstellar colonization was unlikely ever to be swift or easy. But sometimes it was imperative.

  Horton told himself silently:

  "Got to give these kids the best month I can... Not sure I know how... Hope they like the old Moon the way it has become... Though what do I do if they like it too much?... Lunar law. Restrictive. Protective. Necessary... Maybe shameful, in some cases?..."

  He looked down on his world that, among many other persons, he had taken minor, though dangerous and dedicated part in improving. Mare Imbrium—Sea of Rains—at last better deserved its ancient name. On his northward course, Horton was now passing over a large island. Beyond its beaches were the white flecks of villages. Even in its interior, its crags and crater-walls were shagged to their crests with the dark green of young pines, grown taller and slimmer than they could have done on Earth. Around the island, the sun glistened on breeze-rimed water, that spread over a once totally dry plain of windless dust.

  The soft clatter of his craft's rotors was echoed up from below. From beneath his knitted, slightly graying brows, he glanced upward into the clear, deep atmosphere. Blue, thin, mostly oxygen, with a few cloud-wisps floating high in it. It had to be lofty-piled to maintain even the low, 350-millibar barometric reading—open-air-pressure being directly related to weight, and everything, including gases, bearing-down only one-sixth as hard on the Moon as on Earth. No human-devised machine had yet been able effectively to augment a natural sphere's intrinsic gravity.

  But the Sun no longer stood almost still in the sky. Its apparent-movement rate had been quickened. Today it had already crept westward, well into midafternoon.

  Casually, Horton recalled how these improvements had come about:

  First, there had been the conversion of the kinetic energy of two fair-sized asteroids orbiting the Sun, into increased rotation of the lunar mass. Those minor planets had been nudged from their paths, guided close, precisely aimed, then crashed. They were the same sort of bodies that had produced the lunar maria and the largest impact craters billions of years ago. But with the random part of their descent-angles removed. Not steeply down, but in shallow tangents, and exactly along the lunar equator. One colossal chunk of rock and nickel-iron slamming into a highland region adjacent to Mare Tranquillitatis; some weeks later, a similar lump into the antipodal position. Glancing blows, rolls, gougings. Most of that huge energy of motion had been lost as heat, in a blaze of vaporized solids. But enough had been left over... Like two hands, striking at a wheel-rim to make it spin faster.

  So what had been a Moon-turning of twenty-eight mundane days had been speeded up to twenty-eight hours—much more amenable to a less-wide gain-and-loss of solar warmth during light and darkness, and to the other rhythms of living things.

  A wonderful transformation? Perhaps. Yet not as subtle as other, parallel developments in know-how. Mere macromechanics.

  The further, major requirements of lunar change had been accomplished by means both grand-scale and simple. On the smaller satellites of Jupiter, far from the Sun, water-ice was as stable as rock. Congealed carbon-dioxide gas and nitrogen were almost as permanent and plentiful. Against low gravity, catapulting these substances into space in great quantities hadn't been too difficult. In fact, several tiny Jovian moons, undiscovered years ago, and composed almost entirely of these materials, could be moved whole... Masses, with fanned-out evaporations in their wakes, had moved sunward like comets in tandem—to mush down, vaporize, and spread around Luna's curves. First winds had blown, first rains fallen. What difference that all that had been brought would normally leak away from the weak lunar grip in a couple of millennia, when periodic replenishment could be made from a still-plentiful supply? An artificial magnetic field had also been set up, to trap solar radiation and shield the Moon's surface.

  So, vital conditions had been made right. Let scattered green algae spores sprout and begin a process. Plant chlorophyll working its photosynthetic chemistry. Carbon-dioxide molecules broken. Oxygen and nitrogen freed, to build a breathable atmosphere. Other life imported. Years for the basics to become complete. Further progression to the present.

  As an environmental engineer, Horton had been variously involved in the redoing of this world from the start. Meanwhile, he had often been elsewhere. The Jovian system, of course. Mars. Circling Venus i
n an orbital laboratory. A tougher problem, but maybe that planet's poisonous, hot, and over-pressurized air would one day be mellowed by some effective strain of algae, or other means... He had spent time on sun-blasted Mercury. His had been a life of much movement. Yet he had always returned in time to retain his acquired lunar citizenship. Lately, he had remained settled, comfortable, and all but retired.

  Now his craft lofted over the high lip of the Archimedes crater. The spaceport was close ahead. The landed liner stood tall and white. Horton's past blurred, as most of Then became Now, challenging his visual, somewhat flinty, aplomb. Yet it pleased him that he could still become this concerned and interested.

  Port Traffic brought his heli to a parked landing by remote control. Three minutes later, he stood under the Arrivals Dome, waiting. A considerable wait, while other passengers, mostly from the liner's previous stop on Mars, streamed up the moving belt-ramp. Silly, misplaced vanity, he thought—wondering if he looked acceptable enough, when his guests had already seen him several times on Visual. He seldom felt any apology for his aspect: Swarthy from sun and many origins; trim and spare, with a wide, homely face, rather proudly weathered by time and active doings. There were no aches or stiffness in his joints, nor any dimming of his senses. Modern medicine's minor attentions assured that... While the sports-tunic he had changed to for the present errand was in good taste—not as gaudy as most. Jewelry he had left at home...

  He saw them then, riding up the ramp. No recognition-problem anymore. Horton waved his hand; they waved back across the closing distance. Was his part in the scrutiny-trading the more avid? Seeking signs of remote but remembered likeness. Family resemblance? Hah!... But yes, there was some... No doubt prejudiced, Horton felt forcefully that these two looked very pleasing. Paternal pride? Hah, again...

  More sharply, he found contrast. Between them and himself. His affluence, maturity. Their unowning simplicity—near poverty. As of young goals not yet won. Yet again—hah! Have and have-not. Fair? Especially for them?... Still, the worth of the intangible, versus the material... He, himself, remaining part idealist? Shamed?... All of this darkly accented and warped by a strange incompatibility of facts, which, now, both by his will, and by convincing visible evidence, faded to a background whisper in his head.

  So, just then, Horton beheld them much as they were: Both in medium-close-fitting coveralls, blue, clean, and a bit frayed. The young man tall, wiry, a little swaggery, one large thumb thrust under his wide belt. The girl almost tiny, and poised like some restrained and eager pupdog. At their feet, riding the belt-ramp too, were their new rucksacks—compact, practical baggage.

  Now from closer, Horton saw the mottled scar on the young man's left cheek, above his scant, sandy beard. On Visual, he had noticed it before. An obvious relic of a cold-burn—from some momentary flesh-contact with the natural ambience of Titan. So another difference was emphasized: That world where they had toiled, and this gentle, easy one that was his home. An embarrassment?

  They stood before him, now.

  "Hi!" Horton said. This archaic greeting came out of him easily enough.

  Then the girl's arms were tight around his neck, for a quick, uninhibited buss. Jupiter!—like a child's hug and kiss!—Horton thought with some wonder.

  "Chet!"

  "Uh-hug—Lois."

  In the general, first-name social-practice, Horton had just felt a hesitation. However the use of another mode of address seemed blocked by much more than promise.

  Then his fingers were gripped by a more calloused hand.

  "Hello—Chester Horton—Sir!"

  Respect commonly due...? Or a faking of it? For fun. Had to be. How else?... Insolence? A patronization? With a taint of masked savagery?... A deep one, this guy!... For an instant, Horton was almost angered. Until his own mind recaptured more of a willfully dropped thread. This pair was having its uncertainties, and confusions too. For sure. Groping at the strange. And not knowing him. How else to cope, except in fun?... So, on which side should the respect lie?... On both... Here, humble tenderness reached him.

  "Maybe you can guess how good it is to have the pair of you with me, Arnold..."

  Horton paused, then spoke on:

  "You didn't come up the ramp right away. So Visitor Hospitality gave you a close check."

  Supple shoulders bobbed. "No more than expected," said the boy. "We aren't smugglers. And we had our thirty terrestrial-days' permits, for seeing the Moon and the Earth."

  Horton noted the small clusters of plastic flowers that a VH inspector had pinned to their coverall-lapels. Disguised as bright emblems of greeting, but always to be worn, or kept near, while within lunar or terrestrial jurisdiction. For embedded in each was a tracer-transmitter, by which the locations of transients could always be known—unless they broke laws.

  Chester Horton wanted to apologize, explain: That the Moon, though lately become an independent nation, retained Earthly statutes and an alliance. That it already had two-hundred million inhabitants, enough for so small a sphere. That even with offspring limited to two per mated couple, this population was bound to increase... That this world was a desired place, into which innumerable other millions yearned to immigrate—illegally, since at last there was no other way... But didn't so attractive a region have a perfect right to defend itself from becoming an overcrowded slum? Hence the steel firm though velvet-sheathed rule: No person not a citizen, or an authorized representative of another government, would be allowed to remain, beyond the standard visiting interval... Earth, truly crammed with humanity, not only had similar statutes, but constantly urged its people outward.

  Horton believed in all this. How else could anything be preserved? While yielding none of his conviction, still he squirmed somewhat, under it now... Though why—prematurely? His guests were conforming to a larger plan and destination. They were only visiting the Moon; they hadn't asked to stay. It was silly for him to speculate—imagining conflicts of legal rightness with personal sentiments, deserved exceptions, and then with the shame of favoring. And as for explaining lunar law to these kids, they were surely as aware as he, and seemed acquiescent.

  Perhaps it was the massiveness of too much to be said, that now blocked speech among all three present.

  Horton had already pressed a control on the little, round case in his tunic breast-pocket. In response, his heli returned to him, drawn quietly close, along an outgoing traffic-rail.

  He moved to load the slight baggage. But other action was quicker, smoother, and well-practiced, from Titan, in low-gravity.

  "Hey!" he protested mildly.

  This was met by as mild a laughter from the two. An easing.

  "Get in, children," Horton urged. Just then, that last word seemed quite natural to him. "Now, be observers, eh?"

  The craft lofted upward, through the circular exit-port in the domed roof. It climbed much higher, to pass over the crater-wall. Then it dropped to a level, 800-meter altitude.

  The talk-suppression persisted. Horton had much to savor proudly, mystically, yet to find splinters of anguish in, for his crusted soul: The reactions of his guests—not long released from Titan's super-chill—to a different grandeur, the idyllic views, and the kinder reality of many changes all around, as the heli swayed and bobbed in vagrant air-currents. Her dark, swiveling head. Her lips rapturously parted. The boy's controlled intensity, masked, it seemed, by a bluff of casualness.

  She spoke at last, softly:

  "Chet—I knew it had to be lovely. But what are mere pictures?... All this color... Greens, blues... And feeling the wind... Look!... The wake of that speedboat down there!"

  Reaching Horton almost more forcefully, was a single, muttered expletive from the boy, more a grunt than a word. Restrained, private, yet exploding outward. "Agghh!" Like a gambler's rage at a bad choice, when he belatedly sees a better one that he cannot make?

  Horton glanced at the young man, finding fury in his face. But it faded to wry humor at once.

  "I
t was different when I was first here," Horton remarked in his raspy voice. Should he feel tiresome, saying that?

  The girl's mobile features were at once specially intent. Eager pup-dog again? One with sly, private purposes?...

  "Tell us, Chet!" she urged. "How it was... When you were around in all that history..."

  Live interest seemed to vibrate from her gaze. Horton shook his head, as if to straighten a twist in his eyes. But he guessed her mood. Quite like his own... . He looked ahead dreamily, toward the Apennines, over which afternoon mists were gathering.

  "Sure. A duffer's story," he said.

  He was thinking back. To Earth. To what had been... A chaotic time. Bad. Good... But already richly varied. Disturbing to many... Numerous careers possible... Pursued, shifted... Intense, personal attachments formed; then broken or faded... But who found room for much weeping?... His transient, medical father... Dead at last in a space-accident... His distaff parent gone, too—separately... From some virulent allergy, while entertaining in a remote survey-station On Mars...

  His eyes remained fixed ahead, on the southern sky. He chuckled, then began the telling:

  "That summer when I was ten, my mother, bound on a pole-to-pole theatrical-appearance tour, on Earth, sent me out here to people I think she only half knew. It wasn't a common thing, but sometimes done. I was crazy-anxious to come, but scared stiff. There were only about ten thousand persons living here, then—every kind of specialist—selenologists, resources-assayers, constructors—all quartered in underground, pressurized warrens. I stayed with a fiftyish couple, and at first was very homesick. He was a cat-driver, tunnel-excavator-operator, and had lots of other skills. He'd growl at me, boxing my ears for any careless act in a dangerous environment where survival was possible only by attentively-handled, artificial means. But sometimes he'd grab my shoulder, and talk to me man-to-man. About how the Moon might be made into a great place.