A Fall of Moondust (16 page)

“This is Duster One,” he answered. “C. E. E. speaking. I’m fifteen metres above you.
Are you all O.K.? Over.”

It was a long time before he could make any sense of the reply, the background of
shouting and cheering was so loud. That in itself was enough to tell him that all
the passengers were alive, and in good spirits. Listening to them, indeed, one might
almost have imagined that they were holding some drunken celebration. In their joy
at being discovered, at making contact with the human race, they thought that their
troubles were over.

“Duster One calling Port Roris Control,” said Lawrence, while he waited for the tumult
to die down. “We’ve found
Selene
and established radio contact. Judging by the noise that’s going on inside, everyone’s
quite O.K. She’s fifteen metres down, just where Dr. Lawson indicated. I’ll call you
back in a few minutes. Out.”

At the speed of light, waves of relief and happiness would now be spreading over the
Moon, the Earth, the inner planets, bringing a sudden lifting of the hearts to billions
of people. On streets and slideways, in buses and spaceships, perfect strangers would
turn to each other and say, “Have you heard? They’ve found
Selene
.”

In all the Solar System, indeed, there was only one man who could not whole-heartedly
share the rejoicing. As he sat on his ski, listening to those cheers from underground
and looking at the crawling pattern in the dust, Chief Engineer Lawrence felt far
more scared and helpless than the men and women trapped beneath his feet. He knew
that he was facing the greatest battle in his life.

For the first time in twenty-four hours, Maurice Spenser was relaxing. Everything
that could be done had been done. Men and equipment were already moving towards Port
Roris (lucky about Jules Braques being at Clavius—he was one of the best cameramen
in the business, and they’d often worked together). Captain Anson was doing sums with
the computer and looking thoughtfully at contour maps of the mountains. The crew (all
six) had been rounded up from the bars (all three) and informed that there was yet
another change of route. On Earth, at least a dozen contracts had been signed and
telefaxed, and large sums of money had already changed hands. The financial wizards
of Interplanet News would be calculating, with scientific precision, just how much
they could charge the other agencies for the story, without driving them to charter
ships of their own not that this was at all likely, for Spenser had too great a lead.
No competitor could possibly reach the Mountains in less than forty-eight hours; he
would be there in six.

Yes, it was very pleasant to take it easy, in the calm and confident assurance that
everything was under control and going the way you wanted. It was these interludes
that made life worth living, and Spenser knew how to make the most of them. They were
his panacea against ulcers—still, after a hundred years, the occupational disease
of the communications industry.

It was typical of him, however, that he was relaxing on the job. He was lying, a drink
in one hand, a plate of sandwiches by the other, in the small observation lounge of
the Embarkation Building. Through the double sheets of glass he could see the tiny
dock from which
Selene
had sailed three days ago. (There was no escaping from those maritime words, inappropriate
though they were to this situation.) It was merely a strip of concrete stretching
for twenty metres out into the uncanny flatness of the dust; lying most of its length,
like a giant concertina, was the flexible tube through which the passengers could
walk from the Port into the cruiser. Now open to vacuum, it was deflated and partly
collapsed—a most depressing sight, Spenser could not help thinking.

He glanced at his watch, then at that unbelievable horizon. (If he had been asked
to guess, he would have said that it was at least a hundred kilometres away, not two
or three.) A few minutes later, a reflected glint of sunlight caught his eye. There
they were, climbing up over the edge of the Moon. They would be here in five minutes,
out of the airlock in ten. Plenty of time to finish that last sandwich.

Doctor Lawson showed no signs of recognition when Spenser greeted him; that was not
surprising, for their previous brief conversation had been in almost total darkness.

“Doctor Lawson? I’m Bureau Chief of Interplanet News. Permission to record?”

“Just a minute,” interrupted Lawrence. “I know the Interplanet man.
You’re
not Joe Leonard….”

“Correct; I’m Maurice Spenser—I took over from Joe last week. He has to get used to
Earth gravity again—otherwise he’ll be stuck here for life.”

“Well, you’re damn quick off the mark. It was only an hour ago that we radioed.”

Spenser thought it best not to mention that he had already been here the better part
of a day.

“I’d still like to know if I can record,” he repeated. He was very conscientious about
this; some newsmen took a chance and went ahead without permission, but if you were
caught you lost your job. As a Bureau Chief he had to keep the rules laid down to
safeguard his profession—and the public.

“Not now, if you don’t mind,” said Lawrence. “I’ve fifty things to organise, but Doctor
Lawson will be glad to talk to you—he did most of the work and deserves all the credit.
You can quote me on
that
.”

“Er—thank you,” mumbled Tom, looking very embarrassed.

“Right—see you later,” said Lawrence. “I’ll be at the Local Engineer’s office, living
on pills. But you might as well get some sleep.”

“Not until I’ve finished with you,” corrected Spenser, grabbing Tom and aiming him
in the direction of the hotel.

The first person they met in the ten-metre square foyer was Captain Anson.

“I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “The Space-workers’ Union is making
trouble. You know there’s a ruling about time-off between trips. Well, it seems that—”

“
Please
, Captain—not now. Take it up with Interplanet’s legal department—call Clavius 1234—ask
for Harry Dantzig—he’ll straighten it out.”

He propelled the unresisting Tom Lawson up the stairs (it was odd to find an hotel
without elevators, but they were unnecessary on a world where you weighed only a dozen
or so kilos) and into his suite.

Apart from its excessively small size, and complete absence of windows, the suite
might have been in any cheap hotel on Earth. The simple chairs, couch and table were
manufactured from the very minimum of material—most of it fibreglass, for quartz was
common on the Moon. The bathroom was perfectly conventional (that was a relief, after
those tricky free-fall toilets) but the bed had a slightly disconcerting appearance.
Some visitors from Earth found it difficult to sleep under a sixth of a gravity, and
for their benefit an elastic sheet could be stretched across the bed and held in place
by light springs. The whole arrangement had a distinct flavour of strait-jackets and
padded cells.

Another cheerful little touch was the notice behind the door, which announced in English,
Russian and Mandarin that

Spenser had read that notice several times. He still thought that the basic information
could have been conveyed in a more confident, light-hearted manner. The wording lacked
charm.

And that, he decided, was the whole trouble on the Moon. The struggle against the
forces of Nature was so fierce that no energy was left for gracious living. This was
most noticeable in the contrast between the superb efficiency of the technical services,
and the easygoing, take-it-or-leave-it attitude one met in all the other walks of
life. If you complained about the telephone, the plumbing, the air (especially the
air!) it was fixed within minutes. But just try to get quick service in a restaurant
or bar….

“I know you’re very tired,” Spenser began, “but I’d like to ask a few questions. You
don’t mind being recorded, I hope?”

“No,” said Tom, who had long passed the stage of caring one way or the other. He was
slumped in a chair, mechanically sipping the drink Spenser had poured out, but obviously
not tasting it.

“This is Maurice Spenser, Interplanet News, talking with Doctor Thomas Lawson. Now,
doctor, all we know at the moment is that you and Mr. Lawrence, Chief Engineer, Earthside,
have found
Selene
, and that the people inside are safe. Perhaps you’ll tell us, without going into
technical details, just how you—hell and damnation!”

He caught the slowly-falling glass without spilling a drop, then eased the sleeping
astronomer over to the couch. Well, he couldn’t grumble; this was the only item that
hadn’t worked according to plan. And even this might be to his advantage; for no one
else could find Lawson—still less interview him—while he was sleeping it off in what
the Hotel Roris, with a fine sense of humour, called its luxury suite.

In Clavius City, the Tourist Commissioner had finally managed to convince everyone
that he had not been playing favourites. His relief at hearing of
Selene
’s discovery had quickly abated when Reuter’s,
TIME-SPACE
, Triplanetary Publications and Lunar News had phoned him in rapid succession to ask
just how Interplanet had managed to break the story first. It had been on the wires,
in fact, even before it had reached Administration headquarters, thanks to Spenser’s
thoughtful monitoring of the dust-ski radios.

Now that it was obvious what had happened, the suspicions of all the other newservices
had been replaced by frank admiration for Spenser’s luck and enterprise. It would
be a little while yet before they realised that he had an even bigger trick up his
capacious sleeve.

The Communications Centre at Clavius had seen many dramatic moments, but this was
one of the most unforgettable. It was, thought Commissioner Davis, almost like listening
to voices from beyond the grave. A few hours ago, all these men and women were presumed
dead—yet here they were, fit and cheerful, lining up at that buried microphone to
relay messages of reassurance to their friends and relatives. Thanks to the probe
which Lawrence had left as marker and antenna, that fifteen-metre blanket of dust
could no longer cut the cruiser off from the rest of mankind.

The impatient reporters had to wait until there was a break in
Selene
’s transmission before they could get their interview. Miss Wilkins was now speaking,
dictating messages that were being handed to her by the passengers. The cruiser must
have been full of people scribbling telegraphese on the backs of torn-up guide-books,
trying to condense the maximum amount of information into the minimum number of words.
None of this material, of course, could be quoted or reproduced; it was all private
and the Postmaster-Generals of three planets would descend in their combined wrath
upon any reporter foolish enough to use it. Strictly speaking, they should not even
be listening-in on this circuit, as the Communications Officer had several times pointed
out with increasing degrees of indignation.

“…tell Martha, Jan and Ivy not to worry about me, I’ll be home soon. Ask Tom how the
Ericson deal went, and let me know when you call back. My love to you all—George.
End of message. Did you get that?
Selene
calling—over.”

“Lunar Central calling
Selene
. Yes, we have it all down—we’ll see that the messages get delivered and will relay
the answers as soon as they come in. Now can we speak to Captain Harris? Over.”

There was a brief pause, during which the background noises in the cruiser could be
clearly heard—the sound of voices, slightly reverberant in this enclosed space, the
creak of a chair, a muffled “Excuse me.” Then—

“Captain Harris calling Central. Over.”

Commissioner Davis took the mike.

“Captain Harris—this is the Tourist Commissioner. I know that you all have messages
you wish to send, but the news-services are here and are very anxious to have a few
words with you First of all, could you give me a brief description of conditions inside
Selene
? Over.”

“Well, it’s very hot, and we aren’t wearing many clothes. But I don’t suppose we can
grumble about the heat, as it helped you to find us; anyway, we’ve grown used to it.

“The air’s still good, and we have enough food and water, though the menu is—let’s
say it’s monotonous. What more do you want to know? Over.”

“Ask him about morale—how are the passengers taking it?—are there any signs of strain?”
said the representative of Triplanetary Publications. The Tourist Commissioner relayed
the question, rather more tactfully. It seemed to cause slight embarrassment at the
other end of the line.

“Everyone’s behaved very well,” said Pat, just a little too hastily. “Of course, we
all wonder how long it will take you to get us out. Can you give us any ideas on that?
Over.”

“Chief Engineer Lawrence is in Port Roris now, planning rescue operations,” Davis
answered. “As soon as he has an estimate, we’ll pass it on. Meanwhile, how are you
occupying your time? Over.”

Pat told him, thereby enormously multiplying the sale of
Shane
and, less happily, giving a boost to the flagging fortunes of
The Orange and the Apple
. He also gave a brief account of the court proceedings—now terminated
sine die
.

“That must have been amusing entertainment,” said Davis. “But now you won’t have to
rely on your own resources. We can send you anything you want—music, plays, discussions.
Just give the word—we’ll fix it. Over.”

Pat took his time in answering this. The radio link had already transformed their
lives, had brought them hope and put them in touch with their loved ones. Yet in a
way, he was almost sorry that their seclusion was ended. The heart-warming sense of
solidarity, which even Miss Morley’s outburst had scarcely ruffled, was already a
fading dream. They no longer formed a single group, united in the common cause of
survival. Now their lives had diverged again into a score of independent aims and
ambitions. Humanity had swallowed them up once more, as the ocean swallows a rain-drop.