A Fall of Moondust (25 page)

“Ah, but you could collect the air and use it over and over again!”

“Thank
you
, Signor Gusalli,” cut in the firm voice of the master of ceremonies. “Now we have
Mr. Robertson from London, Ontario. What’s your plan, Mr. Robertson?”

“I suggest freezing.”

“Just a minute,” protested Lawson. “How can you freeze dust?”

“First I’d saturate it with water. Next I’d sink cooling pipes and turn the whole
mass into ice. That would hold the dust in place, and then it would be easy to drill
through it.”

“It’s an interesting idea,” admitted Tom, rather reluctantly. “At least it’s not as
crazy as some that we’ve had. But the amount of water needed would be impossibly large.
Remember, the cruiser is fifteen metres down—”

“What’s that in feet?” said the Canadian, in a tone of voice that made it clear that
he was one of the hardcore anti-metric school.

“Fifty feet—as I’m sure you know perfectly well. Now you’d have to deal with a column
at least a metre across—a yard, to you—so that would involve—ah—approximately fifteen
times ten squared times ten to the fourth cubic centimetres which gives—why, of course,
fifteen tons of water. But this assumes no wastage at all; you’d really need several
times as much as this. It might come to as much as a hundred tons. And how much do
you think all the freezing gear would weigh?”

Lawrence was quite impressed. Unlike many scientists he had known, Tom had a firm
grasp of practical realities, and was also a rapid calculator. Usually when an astronomer
or a physicist did a quick computation, his first attempt was out by a factor of anything
from ten to a hundred. As far as Lawrence could judge, Tom was always right the first
time.

The Canadian refrigeration enthusiast was still putting up a fight when he was dragged
off the programme, to be replaced by an African gentleman who wanted to use the opposite
technique—heat. He planned to use a huge concave mirror focusing sunlight on the dust
and fusing it into an immobile mass.

It was obvious that Tom was keeping his temper only with the utmost difficulty; the
solar furnace advocate was one of those stubborn, self-taught ‘experts’ who refused
to admit that he could possibly make an error in his calculations. The argument was
getting really violent when a voice from much closer at hand cut across the programme

“The skis are coming, Mr. Lawrence.”

Lawrence rolled into a sitting position and climbed aboard the raft. If anything was
already in sight, that meant it was practically on top of him. Yes, there was Duster
One—and also Duster Three, which had made a difficult and expensive trip from the
Lake of Drought, the Sea’s smaller equivalent on Farside. That journey was a saga
in itself, that would remain for ever unknown except to the handful of men involved.

Each ski was towing two sledges, piled high with equipment. As they drew alongside
the raft, the first item to be unloaded was the large packing-case containing the
igloo. It was always fascinating to watch one being inflated, and Lawrence had never
anticipated the spectacle more eagerly. (Yes, he definitely had spacesman’s itch.)
The process was completely automatic; one broke a seal, turned two separate levers—as
a safeguard against the disastrous possibility of accidental triggering—and then waited.

Lawrence did not have to wait for long. The sides of the box fell flat, revealing
a tightly-packed, convoluted mass of silvery fabric. It stirred and struggled like
some living creature; Lawrence had once seen a moth emerging from the chrysalis, with
its wings still crumpled, and the two processes bore an uncanny similarity. The insect,
however, had taken an hour to reach its full size and splendour, but the igloo took
only three minutes.

As the air-generator pumped an atmosphere into the flaccid envelope, it expanded and
stiffened in sudden jerks, followed by slow periods of consolidation. Now it was a
metre high, and was spreading outwards rather than upwards. When it had reached the
limits of its extension, it started to go upwards again, and the air-lock popped away
from the main dome. The whole operation, one felt, should be accompanied by laborious
wheezings and puffings; it seemed quite wrong that it was happening in utter silence.

Now the structure had nearly reached its final dimensions, and it was obvious that
‘igloo’ was the only possible name for it. Though they had been designed to provide
protection against a very different—though almost equally hostile—environment, the
snowhouses of the Eskimos had been of exactly the same shape. The technical problem
had been similar; so was the solution.

It took considerably longer to install the fittings than to inflate the igloo, for
all the equipment—bunks, chairs, tables, cupboards, electronic gear—had to be carried
in through the air-lock. Some of the larger items barely made it, having been designed
with only centimetres to spare. But at last there was a radio call from inside the
dome. “We’re open for business!” it said. “Come on in!”

Lawrence wasted no time in accepting the invitation. He began to undo the fittings
of his suit while he was still in the outer section of the two-stage air-lock, and
had the helmet off as soon as he could hear voices from inside the dome, reaching
him through the thickening atmosphere.

It was wonderful to be a free man again—to be able to wriggle, scratch, move without
encumbrance, talk to your fellows face to face. The coffin-sized shower removed the
stink of the space-suit and made him feel fit for human society once more. Then he
put on a pair of shorts—all that one ever wore in an igloo—and sat down to a conference
with his assistants.

Most of the material he had ordered had come in this consignment; the rest would be
arriving on Duster Two in the course of the next few hours. As he checked the supply
lists, he felt himself much more the master of the situation. Oxygen was assured—barring
catastrophe. Water had been getting short down there; well, he could supply that easily
enough. Food was a little more difficult, though it was merely a matter of packing.
Central Catering had already supplied samples of chocolate, compressed meat, cheese
and even elongated French rolls—all packed into cylinders three centimetres wide.
Presently he would shoot them down the air-pipes, and give morale in
Selene
a big boost.

But this was less important than the recommendations of his Brains Trust, embodied
in a dozen blueprints and a terse six-page memorandum. Lawrence read it extremely
carefully, nodding agreement from time to time. He had already come to the same general
conclusions, and he could see no way of escaping from them.

Whatever happened to her passengers,
Selene
had made her last voyage.

The gale that had swept through
Selene
seemed to have carried away with it more than the stagnant air. When he looked back
on their first days beneath the dust, Commodore Hansteen realised that there had often
been a hectic, even hysterical mood aboard, after the initial shock had worn off.
Trying to keep up their spirits, they had sometimes gone too far in the direction
of false gaiety and childish humour.

Now that was all past, and it was easy to see why. The fact that a rescue team was
at work only a few metres away was part of the explanation, but only part of it. The
spirit of tranquillity that they now shared came from their encounter with death;
after that, nothing could be quite the same again. The petty dross of selfishness
and cowardice had been burned out of them.

No one knew this better than Hansteen; he had watched it happen many times before,
whenever a ship’s company faced peril in the far reaches of the Solar System. Though
he was not philosophically inclined, he had had plenty to time to think in space.
He had sometimes wondered if the real reason why men sought danger was that only thus
could they find the companionship and solidarity which they unconsciously craved.

He would be sorry to say good-bye to all these people—yes, even to Miss Morley, who
was now as agreeable and considerate as her temperament would allow. The fact that
he could think that far ahead was the measure of his confidence; one could never be
certain, of course, but the situation now seemed completely under control. No one
knew exactly how Chief Engineer Lawrence intended to get them out, but that problem
was now merely a choice between alternative methods. From now on, their imprisonment
was an inconvenience, not a danger.

It was not even a hardship, since those food cylinders had started popping down the
air-tubes. Though there had never been any risk of starvation, the diet had grown
extremely monotonous, and water had been rationed for some time. Now several hundred
litres had been pumped down, to refill the almost empty tanks.

It was strange that Commodore Hansteen, who usually thought of everything, never asked
himself the simple question, “Whatever happened to all the water we started with?”
Though he had more immediate problems on his mind, the sight of that extra mass being
taken aboard should have set him worrying. But it never did, until it was much too
late.

Pat Harris and Chief Engineer Lawrence were equally to blame for the oversight. It
was the one flaw in a beautifully executed plan. And one flaw, of course, was all
that was needed.

The Engineering Division of Earthside was still working swiftly, but no longer in
a desperate race against the clock. There was time now to construct mock-ups of the
cruiser, to sink them in the Sea off Port Roris, and to try various ways of entering
them. Advice—sensible and otherwise—was still pouring in, but no one took any notice
of it. The approach had been decided, and would not be modified now, unless it ran
into unexpected obstacles.

Twenty-four hours after the igloo had been set up, all the special gear had been manufactured
and shipped out to the site. It was a record that Lawrence hoped he would never have
to break, and he was very proud of the men who had made it possible. The Engineering
Division seldom got the credit it deserved: like the air, everyone took it for granted—forgetting
that the engineers supplied that air.

Now that he was ready to go into action, Lawrence was quite willing to start talking—and
Maurice Spenser was more than willing to accommodate him. This was the moment he had
been waiting for.

As far as he could remember, it was also the first time that there had ever been a
TV interview with camera and subject five kilometres apart. At this fantastic magnification,
of course, the image was a little fuzzy, and the slightest vibration in
Auriga
’s cabin set it dancing on the screen. For this reason, everyone aboard the ship was
motionless, and all non-essential machinery had been switched off.

Chief Engineer Lawrence was standing on the edge of the raft, his spacesuited figure
braced against the small crane that had been swung over the side. Hanging from the
jib was a large concrete cylinder, open at both ends—the first section of the tube
that was now being lowered into the dust.

“After a lot of thought,” said Lawrence for the benefit of that distant camera—but
above all, for the benefit of the men and women fifteen metres beneath him, “we’ve
decided that this is the best way to tackle the problem. This cylinder is called a
caisson”—he pronounced it ‘kasoon’—“and it will sink easily under its own weight;
the sharp lower edge will cut through the dust like a knife through butter.

“We have enough sections to reach the cruiser; when we’ve made contact, and the tube
is sealed at the bottom—its pressure against the roof will ensure that—we’ll start
scooping out the dust. As soon as that’s done, we’ll have an open shaft like a small
well, right down to
Selene
.

“That will be half the battle, but only half. Then we’ll have to connect the shaft
to one of our pressurised igloos, so that when we cut through the cruiser’s roof there’s
no loss of air. But I think—I hope—that these are fairly straightforward problems.”

He paused for a minute, wondering if he should touch on any of the other details that
made this operation so much trickier than it looked. Then he decided not to; those
who understood could see with their own eyes—and the others would not be interested,
or would think he was boasting. This blaze of publicity (about half a billion people
were watching, so the Tourist Commissioner had reported) did not worry him so long
as things went well. But if they did not….

He raised his arm and signalled to the crane-operator.

“Lower away!”

Slowly, the cylinder settled into the dust until its full four-metre length had vanished,
except for a narrow ring just protruding above the surface. It had gone down smoothly
and easily; Lawrence hoped that the remaining sections would be equally obliging.

One of the engineers was carefully going along the rim of the caisson with a spirit-level,
to check that it was sinking vertically. Presently he gave the thumbs-up signal, which
Lawrence acknowledged in the same manner. There had been a time when, like any regular
spacehog, he could carry out an extended and fairly technical conversation by sign-language
alone. This was an essential skill of the trade, for radio sometimes failed and there
were occasions when one did not wish to clutter up the limited number of channels
available.

“Ready for Number Two!” he said.

Now this would be tricky. The first section had to be held rigid, while the second
was bolted to it without altering the alignment. One really needed two cranes for
this job, but a framework of I-beams, supported a few centimetres above the surface
of the dust, could carry the load when the crane was otherwise engaged.

No mistakes now, for God’s sake! he breathed silently. Number Two Section swung off
the sledge that had brought it from Port Roris, and three of the technicians man-handled
it into the vertical. This was the sort of job where the distinction between weight
and mass was vital. That swinging cylinder weighed relatively little—but its momentum
was the same as it would be on Earth, and it could pulp a man if it managed to trap
him on one of those sluggish oscillations. And that was something else peculiar to
the Moon—the slow-motion movement of this suspended mass. In this gravity, a pendulum
took two and a half times as long to complete its cycle as it would do on Earth. This
was something that never looked quite right, except to a man who had been born here.