A Fall of Moondust (13 page)

“A thousand cigarettes.”

“Make sure that no one sees them. I wish you hadn’t told me.” Pat grinned wryly at
Sue and passed on to the next item. It was fairly obvious that food was not going
to be a major problem, but they had to keep track of it. He knew the ways of Administration;
after they were rescued, sooner or later some human or electronic clerk would insist
on a strict accounting of all the food that had been used.

After they were rescued
. Did he really believe that this was going to happen? They had been lost for more
than two days, and there had not been the slightest sign that anyone was looking for
them. He was not sure what signs there could be—but he had expected some.

He stood brooding in silence, until Sue asked anxiously:

“What’s the trouble, Pat? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” he said sarcastically. “We’ll be docking at Base in five minutes. It’s been
a pleasant trip, don’t you think?”

Sue stared at him incredulously; then a flush spread over her cheeks, and her eyes
began to brim with tears.

“I’m sorry,” said Pat, instantly contrite. “I didn’t mean that—it’s been a big strain
for us both, and you’ve been wonderful. I don’t know what we’d have done without you,
Sue.”

She dabbed her nose with a handkerchief, gave a brief smile and answered: “That’s
all right; I understand.” They were both silent for a moment; then she added: “Do
you really think we’re going to get out of this?”

He gave a gesture of helplessness.

“Who can tell? Anyway, for the sake of the passengers, we’ve got to appear confident.
We can be certain that the whole Moon’s looking for us. I can’t believe it will take
much longer.”

“But even if they find us—how are they going to get us out?”

Pat’s eyes wandered to the external door, only a few centimetres away. He could touch
it without moving from this spot; indeed, if he immobilised the safety interlock,
he could open it, for it swung inwards. On the other side of that thin metal sheet
were unknown tons of dust that would come pouring in, like water into a sinking ship,
if there was the slightest crack through which they could enter. How far above them
was the surface? That was a problem that had worried him ever since they had gone
under, but there seemed no way of finding out.

Nor could he answer Sue’s question. It was hard to think beyond the possibility of
being found; if that happened, then surely rescue would follow. The human race would
not let them die, once it had discovered them alive….

But this was wishful thinking, not logic. Hundreds of times in the past, men and women
had been trapped as they were now, and all the resources of great nations had been
unable to save them. There were the miners behind rockfalls, sailors in sunken submarines—and
above all, astronauts in ships on wild orbits, beyond possibility of interception.
Often they had been able to talk freely with their friends and relatives until the
very end, That had happened only two years ago, when
Cassiopeia
’s main drive had jammed, and all her energies had been poured into hurling her away
from the sun. She was out there now, heading towards Canopus, on one of the most precisely
measured orbits of any space vehicle. The astronomers would be able to pin-point her
to within a few thousand kilometres for the next million years. That must have been
a great consolation to her crew, now in a tomb more permanent than any Pharaoh’s.

Pat tore his mind away from this singularly profitless reverie. Their luck had not
yet run out, and to anticipate disaster might be to invite it.

“Let’s hurry up and finish this inventory. I want to hear how Nell is making out with
Sir Isaac.”

That was a much more pleasant train of thought, especially when you were standing
so close to a very attractive and scantily-dressed girl. In a situation like this,
thought Pat, women had one great advantage over men. Sue was still fairly smart, despite
the fact that nothing much was left of her uniform in this tropical heat. But he—like
all the men aboard
Selene
—felt scratchily uncomfortable with his three-days growth of beard, and there was
absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Sue did not seem to mind the stubble, though, when he abandoned the pretence of work
and moved up so close that his bristles rubbed against her cheek. On the other hand,
she did not show any enthusiasm. She merely stood there, in front of the half-empty
locker, as if she had expected this and was not in the least surprised. It was a disconcerting
reaction, and after a few seconds Pat drew away.

“I suppose you think I’m an unscrupulous wolf,” he said, “trying to take advantage
of you like this.”

“Not particularly,” Sue answered. She gave a rather tired laugh. “It makes me glad
to know that I’m not slipping. No girl ever minds a man
starting
to make approaches. It’s when he won’t stop that she gets annoyed.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“We’re not in love, Pat. To me, that’s rather important. Even now.”

“Would it still be important if you knew we won’t get out of this?”

Her forehead wrinkled in concentration.

“I’m not sure—but you said yourself, we’ve got to assume that they’ll find us. If
we don’t, then we might as well give up right away.”

“Sorry,” said Pat. “I don’t want you under those terms. I like you too much, for one
thing.”

“I’m glad to hear that; you know I’ve always enjoyed working with you—there were plenty
of other jobs I could have transferred to.”

“Bad luck for you,” Pat answered, “that you didn’t.” His brief gust of desire, triggered
by proximity, solitude, scanty clothing and sheer emotional strain, had already evaporated.

“Now you’re being pessimistic again,” said Sue. “You know—that’s your big trouble.
You let things get you down. And you won’t assert yourself—anyone can push you around.”

Pat looked at her with more surprise than annoyance.

“I’d no idea,” he said, “that you’d been busy psyching me.”

“I haven’t. But if you’re interested in someone, and work with him, how can you help
learning about him?”

“Well, I don’t believe that people push me around.”

“No? Who’s running this ship now?”

“If you mean the Commodore, that’s different. He’s a thousand times better qualified
to take charge than I am. And he’s been absolutely correct about it—he’s asked my
permission all along the line.”

“He doesn’t bother now. Anyway, that’s not the whole point. Aren’t you
glad
he’s taken over?”

Pat thought about this for several seconds. Then he looked at Sue with grudging respect.

“Maybe you’re right. I’ve never cared to throw my weight about, or assert my authority—if
I have any. I guess that’s why I’m driver of a moonbus, not skipper of a spaceliner.
It’s a little late to do anything about it now.”

“You’re not thirty yet.”

“Thank you for those kind words. I’m thirty-two. We Harrises retain our youthful good
looks well into old age. It’s usually all we have left by then.”

“Thirty-two—and no steady girl-friend?”

Ha! thought Pat—there are several things you don’t know about me. But there was no
point in mentioning Clarissa and her little apartment at Copernicus City, which now
seemed so far away. (And how upset is Clarissa right now? he wondered. Which of the
boys is busy consoling her? Perhaps Sue is right, after all. I don’t have a
steady
girl-friend. I haven’t had one since Yvonne, and that was five years ago. No, My
God—
seven
years ago.)

“I believe there’s safety in numbers,” he said. “One of these days I’ll settle down.”

“Perhaps you’ll still be saying that when you’re forty—or fifty. There are so many
spacemen like that. They haven’t settled down when it’s time to retire—and then it’s
too late. Look at the Commodore, for example.”

“What about him? I’m beginning to get a little tired of the subject.”

“He’s spent all his life in space. He has no family, no children. Earth can’t mean
much to him—he’s spent so little time there. He must have felt quite lost when he
reached the age limit. This accident has been a godsend to him—he’s really enjoying
himself now.”

“Good for him—he deserves it. I’ll be happy if I’ve done a tenth as much as he has,
when I’ve reached his age—which doesn’t seem very likely at the moment.”

Pat became aware that he was still holding the inventory sheets; he had forgotten
all about them. They were a reminder of their dwindling resources, and he looked at
them with distaste.

“Back to work,” he said. “We have to think of the passengers.”

“If we stay here much longer,” replied Sue, “the passengers will start thinking of
us.”

She spoke more truthfully than she had guessed.

Dr. Lawson’s silence, the Chief Engineer decided, had gone on long enough. It was
high time to resume communication.

“Everything all right, Doctor?” he asked in his friendliest voice.

There was a short, angry bark—but the anger was directed at the universe, not at him.

“It won’t work,” Lawson answered bitterly. “The heat image is too confused. There
are dozens of hot-spots, not just the one I was expecting.”

“Stop your ski. I’ll come over and have a look.”

Duster Two slid to a halt; Duster One eased up beside it until the two vehicles were
almost touching. Moving with surprising ease despite the encumbrance of his spacesuit,
Lawrence swung himself from one to the other and stood, gripping the supports of the
overhead canopy, behind Lawson. He peered over the astronomer’s shoulder at the image
on the infra-red converter.

“I see what you mean; it’s a mess. But why was it uniform when you took your photos?”

“It must be a sunrise effect. The Sea’s warming up, and for some reason it’s not heating
at the same rate everywhere.”

“Perhaps we can still make sense out of the pattern. I notice that there are some
fairly clear areas—there must be an explanation for them. If we understood what’s
happening, it might help.”

Tom Lawson stirred himself with a great effort. The brittle shell of his self-confidence
had been shattered by this unexpected set-back, and he was very tired. He had had
little sleep in the last two days, he had been hurried from satellite to spaceship
to Moon to dust-ski, and after all that, his science had failed him.

“There could be a dozen explanations,” he said dully. “This dust looks uniform, but
there may be patches with different conductivities. And it must be deeper in some
places than in others—that would alter the heat flow.”

Lawrence was still staring at the pattern on the screen, trying to relate it to the
visual scene around him.

“Just a minute,” he said. “I think you’ve got something.” He called to the pilot.
“How deep is the dust round here?”

“Nobody knows; the Sea’s never been sounded properly. But it’s very shallow in these
parts—we’re near the northern edge. Sometimes we take out a fan blade on a reef.”

“As shallow as
that
? Well, there’s your answer. If there’s rock only a few centimetres below us, anything
could happen to the heat pattern. Ten to one you’ll find the picture getting simpler
again when we’re clear of these shoals. This is only a local effect, caused by irregularities
just underneath us.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Tom, reviving slightly. “If
Selene
has sunk, she must be in an area where the dust’s fairly deep. You’re
sure
it’s shallow here?”

“Let’s find out; there’s a twenty-metre probe on my ski.”

A single section of the telescoping rod was enough to prove the point. When Lawrence
drove it into the dust, it penetrated less than two metres before hitting an obstruction.

“How many spare fans have we got?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Four—two complete sets,” answered the pilot. “But when we hit a rock, the cotter-pin
shears through and the fans aren’t damaged. Anyway, there’re made of rubber; usually
they just bend back. I’ve only lost three in the last year.
Selene
took out one the other day, and Pat Harris had to go outside and replace it. Gave
the passengers some excitement.”

“Right—let’s start moving again. Head for the gorge; I’ve a theory that it continues
out underneath the Sea, so the dust will be much deeper there. If it is, your picture
should start getting simpler, almost at once.”

Without much hope, Tom watched the patterns of light and shade flow across the screen.
The skis were moving quite slowly now, giving him time to analyse the picture. They
had travelled about two kilometres when he saw that Lawrence had been perfectly right.

The mottlings and dapplings had begun to disappear; the confused jumble of warmth
and coolness was merging into uniformity. The screen was becoming a flat grey as the
temperature variations smoothed themselves out; beyond question, the dust was swiftly
deepening beneath them.

The knowledge that his equipment was effective once more should have gratified Tom,
but it had almost the opposite result. He could think only of the hidden depths above
which he was floating, supported on the most treacherous and unstable of mediums.
Beneath him now there might be gulfs reaching far down into the Moon’s mysterious
heart; at any moment they might swallow the dust-ski, as already they had swallowed
Selene
.

He felt as if he were tight-rope walking across an abyss, or feeling his way along
a narrow path through a quaking quicksand. All his life he had been uncertain of himself,
and had known security and confidence only through his technical skills—never at the
level of personal relations. Now the hazards of his present position were reacting
upon those inner fears; he felt a desperate need for solidity—for something firm and
stable to which he could cling.

Over there were the mountains, only three kilometres away—massive, eternal, their
roots anchored in the Moon. He looked at the sunlit sanctuary of those high peaks
as longingly as some Pacific castaway, helpless upon a drifting raft, might have stared
at an island passing just beyond his reach.