A Fall of Moondust (19 page)

“How long would you guess?” said Pat very quietly.

“Two or three hours at the most. And it will be at least six before Lawrence, and
his men can get here.”

It was then that Pat knew, without any further argument, that he was genuinely in
love with Susan. For his first reaction was not fear for his own safety, but anger
and grief that, after having endured so much, she would have to die within sight of
rescue.

When Tom Lawson woke up in that strange hotel room, he was not even sure
who
he was, still less where he was. The fact that he had some weight was his first reminder
that he was no longer on Lagrange—but he was not heavy enough for Earth. Then it was
not a dream; he was on the Moon, and he really had been out into that deadly Sea of
Thirst.

And he had helped to find
Selene
; twenty-two men and women now had a chance of life, thanks to his skill and science.
After all the disappointments and frustrations, his adolescent dreams of glory were
about to come true. Now the world would have to make amends to him for its indifference
and neglect.

The fact that society had provided him with an education which, a century earlier,
only a few men could afford, did nothing to alleviate Tom Lawson’s grudge against
it. Such treatment was automatic in this age, when every child was educated to the
level that his intelligence and aptitudes permitted. Now that civilisation needed
all the talent that it could find, merely to maintain itself, any other educational
policy would have been suicide. Tom Lawson gave no thanks to society for providing
the environment in which he had obtained his doctor’s degree; it had acted in its
own self-interest.

Yet this morning he did not feel quite so bitter about life or so cynical about human
beings. Success and recognition are great emollients, and he was on his way to achieving
both. But there was more to it than that; he had glimpsed a deeper satisfaction. Out
there on Duster Two, when his fears and uncertainties had been about to overwhelm
him, he had made contact with another human being, and had worked in successful partnership
with a man whose skill and courage he could respect.

It was only a tenuous contact, and like others in the past it might lead nowhere.
A part of his mind, indeed, hoped that it would, so that he could once again assure
himself that all men were selfish, sadistic scoundrels. Tom could no more escape from
his early boyhood than Charles Dickens, for all his success and fame, could escape
the shadows of the blacking factory that had both metaphorically and literally darkened
his youth. But he had made a fresh beginning—though he still had very far to go before
he became a fully-paid-up member of the human race.

When he had showered and tidied himself, he noticed the message that Spenser had left
lying on the table. “Make yourself at home,” it said. “I’ve had to leave in a hurry.
Mike Graham is taking over from me—call him at 3443 as soon as you’re awake.”

I’m hardly likely to call him
before
I’m awake, thought Tom, whose excessively logical mind loved to seize on such loosenesses
of speech. But he obeyed Spenser’s request, heroically resisting the impulse to order
breakfast first.

When he got through to Mike Graham, he discovered that he had slept through a very
hectic six hours in the history of Port Roris, that Spenser had taken off in
Auriga
for the Sea of Thirst—and that the town was full of newsmen from all over the Moon,
most of them looking for Dr. Lawson.

“Stay right where you are,” said Graham, whose name and voice were both vaguely familiar
to Tom; he must have seen him on those rare occasions that he tuned in to lunar telecasts.
“I’ll be over in five minutes.”

“I’m starving,” protested Tom.

“Call Room Service and order anything you like—it’s on us, of course—but don’t go
outside the suite.”

Tom did not resent being pushed around in this somewhat cavalier fashion; it meant,
after all, that he was now an important piece of property. He was much more annoyed
by the fact that, as anyone in Port Roris could have told him, Mike Graham arrived
long before Room Service. It was a hungry astronomer who now faced Mike’s miniature
telecamera and tried to explain, for the benefit of—as yet—only two hundred million
viewers, exactly how he had been able to locate
Selene
.

Thanks to the transformation wrought by hunger and his recent experiences, he made
a first-class job of it. A few days ago, had any TV reporter managed to draw Lawson
in front of a camera to explain the technique of infra-red detection, he would have
been swiftly and contemptuously blinded by science. Tom would have given a no-holds-barred
lecture full of such terms as quantum efficiency, black-body radiation and spectral
sensitivity that would have convinced his audience that the subject was extremely
complex (which was true enough) and wholly impossible for the layman to understand
(which was quite false.)

But now he carefully and fairly patiently—despite the occasional urgent proddings
of his stomach—answered Mike Graham’s questions in terms that most of his viewers
could understand. To the large section of the astronomical community which Tom had
scarred at some time or other, it was a revelation. Up in Lagrange II, Professor Kotelnikov
summarised the feelings of all his colleagues when, at the end of the performance,
he paid Tom the ultimate compliment. “Quite frankly,” he said in tones of incredulous
disbelief, “I would never have recognised him.”

It was something of a feat to have squeezed six men into
Selene
’s airlock, but—as Pat had demonstrated—it was the only place where one could hold
a private conference. The other passengers doubtless wondered what was happening;
they would soon know.

When Hansteen had finished, his listeners looked understandably worried, but not particularly
surprised; they were intelligent men, and must have already guessed the truth.

“I’m telling you first,” explained the Commodore, “because Captain Harris and I decided
you were all level-headed—and tough enough to give us help if we need it. I hope to
God we won’t, but there may be trouble when I make my announcement.”

“And if there is?” said Harding.

“If anyone makes a fuss—jump on them,” answered the Commodore briefly. “But be as
casual as you can when we go back into the cabin. Don’t look as if you’re expecting
a fight; that’s the best way to start one. Your job is to damp out panic before it
spreads.”

“Do you think it’s fair,” said Dr. McKenzie, “not to give an opportunity to—well,
send out some last messages?”

“We thought of that, but it would take a long time and would make everyone completely
depressed. We want to get this through as quickly as possible. The sooner we act,
the better our chance.”

“Do you really think we have one?” asked Barrett.

“Yes,” said Hansteen, “though I’d hate to quote the odds. No more questions? Bryan?
Johanson? Right—let’s go.”

As they marched back into the cabin, and took their places, the remaining passengers
looked at them with curiosity and growing alarm. Hansteen did not keep them in suspense.

“I’ve some grave news,” he said, speaking very slowly. “You must all have noticed
difficulty in breathing and several of you have complained about headaches.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s the air. We still have plenty of oxygen—that’s not our problem.
But we can’t get rid of the carbon dioxide we exhale; it’s accumulating inside the
cabin. Why, we don’t know; my guess is that the heat has knocked out the chemical
absorbers: But the explanation hardly matters, for there’s nothing we can do about
it.” He had to stop and take several deep breaths before he could continue.

“So we have to face this situation. Your breathing difficulties will get steadily
worse; so will your headaches. I won’t attempt to fool you. The rescue team can’t
possibly reach us in under six hours, and we can’t wait that long.”

There was a stifled gasp from somewhere in the audience; Hansteen avoided looking
for its source. A moment later there came a stertorous snore from Mrs. Schuster; at
another time it would have been funny, but not now. She was one of the lucky ones;
she was already peacefully, if not quietly, unconscious.

The Commodore refilled his lungs; it was tiring to talk for any length of time.

“If I couldn’t offer you some hope,” he continued, “I would have said nothing. But
we do have one chance and we have to take it soon. It’s not a very pleasant one, but
the alternative is much worse. Miss Wilkins—please hand me the sleep-tubes.”

There was a deathly silence—not even interrupted by Mrs. Schuster—as the stewardess
handed over a small metal box. Hansteen opened it, and took out a white cylinder the
size and shape of a cigarette.

“You probably know,” he continued, “that all space vehicles are compelled by law to
carry these in their medicine chests. They are quite painless, and will knock you
out for ten hours. That may mean all the difference between life and death—for man’s
respiration rate is cut by more than fifty per cent when he’s unconscious. So our
air will last twice as long as it would otherwise do. Long enough, we hope, for Port
Roris to reach us.

“Now, it’s essential for at least one person to remain awake to keep in touch with
the rescue team. And to be on the safe side, we should have two. One of them must
be the Captain; I think that goes without argument.”

“And I suppose the other should be you?” said an all-too-familiar voice.

“I’m really very sorry for you, Miss Morley,” said Commodore Hansteen, without the
slightest sign of resentment—for there was no point, now, in making an issue of a
matter that had already been settled. “Just to remove any possible misconceptions—”

Before anyone quite realised what had happened, he had pressed the cylinder to his
forearm.

“I’ll hope to see you all—ten hours from now,” he said, very slowly but distinctly,
as he walked to the nearest seat. He had barely reached it when he slumped quietly
into oblivion.

It’s all your show now, Pat told himself as he got to his feet. For a moment he thought
like addressing a few well-chosen words to Miss Morley; then he realised that to do
so would spoil the dignity of the Commodore’s exit.

“I’m the captain of this vessel,” he said in a firm, low voice. “And from now on,
what I say goes.”

“Not with
me
,” retorted the indomitable Miss Morley. “I’m a paying passenger and I have my rights.
I’ve not the slightest intention of using one of those things.”

The blasted woman seemed unsnubbable; Pat was also compelled to admit that she had
guts. He had a brief, nightmare glimpse of the future that her words suggested. Ten
hours alone with Miss Morley, and no one else to talk to….

He glanced at the five trouble-shooters. The nearest to Miss Morley was the Jamaican
civil engineer, Robert Bryan. He looked ready and willing to move into action, but
Pat still hoped that unpleasantness could be avoided.

“I don’t wish to argue about rights,” he said, “but if you were to look at the small
print on your tickets you’d discover that, in an emergency, I’m in absolute charge
here. In any event, this is for your own good, and your own comfort. I’d much rather
be asleep than awake, while we wait for the rescue team to get here.”

“That goes for me too,” said Professor Jayawardene unexpectedly. “As the Commodore
said, it will conserve the air, so it’s our only chance. Miss Wilkins—will you give
me one of those things?”

The calm logic of this helped to lower the emotional temperature; so did the Professor’s
smooth, obviously comfortable slide into unconsciousness. Two down and eighteen to
go, murmured Pat under his breath.

“Let’s waste no more time,” he said aloud. “As you can see, these shots are entirely
painless. There’s a microjet hypodermic inside each cylinder, and you won’t even feel
a pin-prick.”

Sue Wilkins was already handing out the innocent-looking little tubes, and several
of the passengers had used them immediately. There went the Schusters—Irving, with
a reluctant and touching tenderness, had pressed the tube against the arm of his sleeping
wife—and the enigmatic Mr. Radley. That left fifteen. Who would be next?

Now Sue had come to Miss Morley. This was it, thought Pat. If she was
still
determined to make a fuss…

He might have guessed it.

“I thought I made it
quite
clear that I don’t want one of those things. Please take it away.”

Robert Bryan began to inch forward—but it was the sardonic, English voice of David
Barrett that did the trick.

“What
really
worries the good lady, Captain,” he said, obviously placing his barb with relish,
“is that you may take advantage of her in her helpless condition.”

For few seconds, Miss Morley sat speechless with fury, while her cheeks turned a bright
crimson.

“I’ve never been so insulted in my—” she began.

“Nor have
I
, madam,” interjected Pat, completing her demoralisation. She looked round the circle
of faces—most of them solemn, but several grinning, even at a time like this—and realised
that there was only one way out.

As she slumped in her seat, Pat breathed a vast sigh of relief. After that little
episode, the rest should be easy.

Then he saw that Mrs. Williams, whose birthday had been celebrated in such spartan
style only a few hours before, was staring a kind of frozen trance at the cylinder
in her hand. The poor woman was obviously terrified, and no one could blame her. In
the next seat, her husband had already collapsed; it was a little ungallant, Pat thought,
to have gone first and left his wife to fend for herself.

Before he could take any action, Sue had moved forward.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Williams—I made a mistake—I gave you an empty one. Perhaps you’ll
let me have it back….”