Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky (33 page)
Read Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky Online
Authors: Robert A Heinlein
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Science Fiction, #Space Opera, #Action & Adventure
Charlie clambered monkey fashion to the nose of the ship, and anchored to the gymbals of the pilot’s chair. McIntyre questioned him with his eyes.
“Yeah, he’s alive all right,” Charlie told him, “but he’s in bad shape.”
“How bad?”
“Couple of cracked ribs anyhow. I don’t know what else. I don’t know whether he’ll last out the trip, Mac. His heart was pounding something awful.”
“He’ll last, Charlie. He’s tough.”
“Tough? He’s delicate as a canary.”
“I don’t mean that. He’s tough way down inside—where it counts.”
“Just the same you’d better set her down awful easy if you want to ground with a full complement aboard.”
“I will. I’ll make one full swing around the Moon and ease her in on an involute approach curve. We’ve got enough fuel, I think.”
* * *
They were now in a free orbit; after McIntyre turned ship, Charlie went back, unslung the hammock, and moved Harriman, hammock and all, to a side port. McIntyre steadied the ship about a transverse axis so that the tail pointed toward the Sun, then gave a short blast on two tangential jets opposed in couple to cause the ship to spin slowly about her longitudinal axis, and thereby create a slight artificial gravity. The initial weightlessness when coasting commenced had knotted the old man with the characteristic nausea of free flight, and the pilot wished to save his passenger as much discomfort as possible.
But Harriman was not concerned with the condition of his stomach.
There it was, all as he had imagined it so many times. The Moon swung majestically past the view port, wider than he had ever seen it before, all of her familiar features cameo clear. She gave way to the Earth as the ship continued its slow swing, the Earth itself as he had envisioned her, appearing like a noble moon, many times as wide as the Moon appears to the Earthbound, and more luscious, more sensuously beautiful than the silver Moon could be. It was sunset near the Atlantic seaboard—the line of shadow cut down the coast line of North America, slashed through Cuba, and obscured all but the west coast of South America. He savored the mellow blue of the Pacific Ocean, felt the texture of the soft green and brown of the continents, admired the blue-white cold of the polar caps. Canada and the northern states were obscured by cloud, a vast low pressure area that spread across the continent. It shone with an even more satisfactory dazzling white than the polar caps.
As the ship swung slowly around, Earth would pass from view, and the stars would march across the port—the same stars he had always known, but steady, brighter, and unwinking against a screen of perfect, live black. Then the Moon would swim into view again to claim his thoughts.
He was serenely happy in a fashion not given to most men, even in a long lifetime. He felt as if he were every man who has ever lived, looked up at the stars, and longed.
As the long hours came and went he watched and dozed and dreamed. At least once he must have fallen into deep sleep, or possibly delirium, for he came to with a start, thinking that his wife, Charlotte, was calling to him. “Delos!” the voice had said. “Delos! Come in from there! You’ll catch your death of cold in that night air.”
Poor Charlotte! She had been a good wife to him, a good wife. He was quite sure that her only regret in dying had been her fear that he could not take proper care of himself. It had not been her fault that she had not shared his dream, and his need.
Charlie rigged the hammock in such a fashion that Harriman could watch from the starboard port when they swung around the far face of the Moon. He picked out the landmarks made familiar to him by a thousand photographs with nostalgic pleasure, as if he were returning to his own country. McIntyre brought her slowly down as they came back around to the Earthward face, and prepared to land east of Mare Fecunditatis, about ten miles from Luna City.
It was not a bad landing, all things considered. He had to land without coaching from the ground, and he had no second pilot to watch the radar for him. In his anxiety to make it gentle, he missed his destination by some thirty miles even though he did his cold-sober best. But at that it was bumpy.
As they grounded and the pumice dust settled around them, Charlie came up to the control station.
“How’s our passenger?” Mac demanded.
“I’ll see, but I wouldn’t make any bets. That landing stunk, Mac.”
“Damn it, I did my best.”
“I know you did, Skipper. Forget it.”
But the passenger was alive and conscious although bleeding from the nose and with a pink foam on his lips. He was feebly trying to get himself out of his cocoon. They helped him, working together.
“Where are the vacuum suits?” was his first remark.
“Steady, Mr. Harriman. You can’t go out there yet. We’ve got to give you some first aid.”
“Get me that suit!
First aid can wait.”
Silently, they did as he ordered. His left leg was practically useless, and they had to help him through the lock, one on each side. But with his inconsiderable mass having a lunar weight of only twenty pounds, he was no burden. They found a place some fifty yards from the ship where they could prop him up and let him look, a chunk of scoria supporting his head.
McIntyre put his helmet against the old man’s and spoke, “We’ll leave you here to enjoy the view while we get ready for the trek into town. It’s a forty-miler, pretty near, and we’ll have to break out spare air bottles and rations and stuff. We’ll be back soon.”
Harriman nodded without answering, and squeezed their gauntlets with a grip that was surprisingly strong.
He sat very quietly, rubbing his hands against the soil of the Moon and sensing the curiously light pressure of his body against the ground. At long last there was peace in his heart. His hurts had ceased to pain him. He
was
where he had longed to be—he had followed his need. Over the western horizon hung the Earth at last quarter, a green-blue giant moon. Overhead the Sun shone down from a black and starry sky. And underneath the Moon, the soil of the Moon itself. He was on the Moon!
He lay back still while a bath of content flowed over him like a tide at flood, and soaked to his very marrow.
His attention strayed momentarily, and he thought once again that his name was called. Silly, he thought, I’m getting old—my mind wanders.
Back in the cabin Charlie and Mac were rigging shoulder yokes on a stretcher. “There. That will do,” Mac commented. “We’d better stir Pop out; we ought to be going.”
“I’ll get him,” Charlie replied. “I’ll just pick him up and carry him. He don’t weigh nothing.”
Charlie was gone longer than McIntyre had expected him to be. He returned alone. Mac waited for him to close the lock, and swing back his helmet. “Trouble?”
“Never mind the stretcher, Skipper. We won’t be needin’ it.
“Yeah, I mean it,” he continued. “Pop’s done for. I did what was necessary.”
McIntyre bent down without a word and picked up the wide skis necessary to negotiate the powdery ash. Charlie followed his example. Then they swung the spare air bottles over their shoulders, and passed out through the lock.
They didn’t bother to close the outer door of the lock behind them.
Orphans
of the
Sky
Part One
Universe
I
Universe
The Proximo Centauri Expedition, sponsored by the Jordan Foundation in 2119, was the first recorded attempt to reach the nearer stars of this galaxy. Whatever its unhappy fate we can only conjecture . . .
—
The Romance of Modern Astrography
by Franklin Buck,
Published by Lux Transcriptions, Ltd., 3.50 cr.
“There’s a Mutie! Look out!” At the shouted warning, Hugh Hoyland ducked, with nothing to spare. An egg-sized iron missile clanged against the bulkhead just above his scalp with force that promised a fractured skull. The speed with which he crouched had lifted his feet from the floor plates. Before his body could settle slowly to the deck, he planted his feet against the bulkhead behind him and shoved. He went shooting down the passageway in a long, flat dive, his knife drawn and ready.
He twisted in the air, checked himself with his feet against the opposite bulkhead at the turn in the passage from which the mutie had attacked him, and floated lightly to his feet. The other branch of the passage was empty. His two companions joined him, sliding awkwardly across the floor plates.
“Is it gone?” demanded Alan Mahoney.
“Yes,” agreed Hoyland. “I caught a glimpse of it as it ducked down that hatch. A female, I think. Looked like it had four legs.”
“Two legs or four, we’ll never catch it now,” commented the third man.
“Who the Huff wants to catch it?” protested Mahoney.
“I
don’t.”
“Well, I do, for one,” said Hoyland. “By Jordan, if its aim had been two inches better, I’d be ready for the Converter.”
“Can’t either one of you two speak three words without swearing?” the third man disapproved. “What if the Captain could hear you?” He touched his forehead reverently as he mentioned the Captain.
“Oh, for Jordan’s sake,” snapped Hoyland, “don’t be so stuffy, Mort Tyler. You’re not a scientist yet. I reckon I’m as devout as you are—there’s no grave sin in occasionally giving vent to your feelings. Even the scientists do it. I’ve heard ’em.”
Tyler opened his mouth as if to expostulate, then apparently thought better of it.
Mahoney touched Hoyland on the arm. “Look, Hugh,” he pleaded, “let’s get out of here. We’ve never been this high before. I’m jumpy—I want to get back down to where I can feel some weight on my feet.”
Hoyland looked longingly toward the hatch through which his assailant had disappeared while his hand rested on the grip of his knife, then he turned to Mahoney. “O.K., kid,” he agreed, “it’s a long trip down anyhow.”
He turned and slithered back toward the hatch, whereby they had reached the level where they now were, the other two following him. Disregarding the ladder by which they had mounted, he stepped off into the opening and floated slowly down to the deck fifteen feet below, Tyler and Mahoney close behind him. Another hatch, staggered a few feet from the first, gave access to a still lower deck. Down, down, down, and still farther down they dropped, tens and dozens of decks, each silent, dimly lighted, mysterious. Each time they fell a little faster, landed a little harder. Mahoney protested at last.
“Let’s walk the rest of the way, Hugh. That last jump hurt my feet.”
“All right. But it will take longer. How far have we got to go? Anybody keep count?”
“We’ve got about seventy decks to go to reach farm country,” answered Tyler.
“How do you know?” demanded Mahoney suspiciously.
“I counted them, stupid. And as we came down I took one away for each deck.”
“You did not. Nobody but a scientist can do numbering like that. Just because you’re learning to read and write you think you know everything.”
Hoyland cut in before it could develop into a quarrel. “Shut up, Alan. Maybe he can do it. He’s clever about such things. Anyhow, it feels like about seventy decks—I’m heavy enough.”
“Maybe he’d like to count the blades on my knife.”
“Stow it, I said. Dueling is forbidden outside the village. That is the Rule.” They proceeded in silence, running lightly down the stairways until increasing weight on each succeeding level forced them to a more pedestrian pace. Presently they broke through into a level that was quite brilliantly lighted and more than twice as deep between decks as the ones above it. The air was moist and warm; vegetation obscured the view.
“Well, down at last,” said Hugh. “I don’t recognize this farm; we must have come down by a different line than we went up.”
“There’s a farmer,” said Tyler. He put his little fingers to his lips and whistled, then called, “Hey! Shipmate! Where are we?”
The peasant looked them over slowly, then directed them in reluctant monosyllables to the main passageway which would lead them back to their own village.
A brisk walk of a mile and a half down a wide tunnel moderately crowded with traffic—travelers, porters, an occasional pushcart, a dignified scientist swinging in a litter borne by four husky orderlies and preceded by his master-at-arms to clear the common crew out of the way—a mile and a half of this brought them to the common of their own village, a spacious compartment three decks high and perhaps ten times as wide. They split up and went their own ways, Hugh to his quarters in the barracks of the cadets—young bachelors who did not live with their parents. He washed himself, and went thence to the compartments of his uncle, for whom he worked for his meals. His aunt glanced up as he came in, but said nothing, as became a woman.
His uncle said, “Hello, Hugh. Been exploring again?”
“Good eating, Uncle. Yes.”
His uncle, a stolid, sensible man, looked tolerantly amused. “Where did you go and what did you find?”
Hugh’s aunt had slipped silently out of the compartment, and now returned with his supper which she placed before him. He fell to—it did not occur to him to thank her. He munched a bite before replying.
“Up. We climbed almost to the level-of-no-weight. A mutie tried to crack my skull.”
His uncle chuckled. “You’ll find your death in those passageways, lad. Better you should pay more attention to my business against the day when I’ll die and get out of your way.”
Hugh looked stubborn. “Don’t you have any curiosity, Uncle?”
“Me? Oh, I was prying enough when I was a lad. I followed the main passage all the way around and back to the village. Right through the Dark Sector I went, with muties tagging my heels. See that scar?”
Hugh glanced at it perfunctorily. He had seen it many times before and heard the story repeated to boredom. Once around the Ship—
pfui!
He wanted to go everywhere, see everything, and find out the why of things. Those upper levels now—if men were not intended to climb that high, why had Jordan created them?
But he kept his own counsel and went on with his meal. His uncle changed the subject. “I’ve occasion to visit the Witness. John Black claims I owe him three swine. Want to come along?”
“Why, no, I guess not—Wait—I believe I will.”
“Hurry up, then.”
They stopped at the cadets’ barracks, Hugh claiming an errand. The Witness lived in a small, smelly compartment directly across the Common from the barracks, where he would be readily accessible to any who had need of his talents. They found him sitting in his doorway, picking his teeth with a fingernail. His apprentice, a pimply-faced adolescent with an intent nearsighted expression, squatted behind him.
“Good eating,” said Hugh’s uncle.
“Good eating to you, Edard Hoyland. D’you come on business, or to keep an old man company?”
“Both,” Hugh’s uncle returned diplomatically, then explained his errand.
“So?” said the Witness. “Well—the contract’s clear enough:
“Black John delivered ten bushels of oats,
Expecting his pay in a pair of shoats;
Ed brought his sow to breed for pig;
John gets his pay when the pigs grow big.
“How big are the pigs now, Edard Hoyland?”
“Big enough,” acknowledged Hugh’s uncle, “but Black claims three instead of two.”
“Tell him to go soak his head. The Witness has spoken.” He laughed in a thin, high cackle.
The two gossiped for a few minutes, Edard Hoyland digging into his recent experiences to satisfy the old man’s insatiable liking for details. Hugh kept decently silent while the older men talked. But when his uncle turned to go he spoke up. “I’ll stay awhile, Uncle.”
“Eh? Suit yourself. Good eating, Witness.”
“Good eating, Edard Hoyland.”
“I’ve brought you a present, Witness,” said Hugh, when his uncle had passed out of hearing.
“Let me see it.”
Hugh produced a package of tobacco which he had picked up from his locker at the barracks. The Witness accepted it without acknowledgment, then tossed it to his apprentice, who took charge of it.
“Come inside,” invited the Witness, then directed his speech to his apprentice. “Here, you—fetch the cadet a chair.
“Now, lad,” he added as they sat themselves down, “tell me what you have been doing with yourself.”
Hugh told him, and was required to repeat in detail all the incidents of his more recent explorations, the Witness complaining the meanwhile over his inability to remember exactly everything he saw.
“You youngsters have no capacity,” he pronounced. “No capacity. Even that lout”—he jerked his head toward the apprentice—“he has none, though he’s a dozen times better than you. Would you believe it, he can’t soak up a thousand lines a day, yet he expects to sit in my seat when I am gone. Why, when I was apprenticed, I used to sing myself to sleep on a mere thousand lines. Leaky vessels—that’s what you are.”
Hugh did not dispute the charge, but waited for the old man to go on, which he did in his own time.
“You had a question to put to me, lad?”
“In a way, Witness.”
“Well—out with it. Don’t chew your tongue.”
“Did you ever climb all the way up to no-weight?”
“Me? Of course not. I was a Witness, learning my calling. I had the lines of all the Witnesses before me to learn, and no time for boyish amusements.”
“I had hoped you could tell me what I would find there.”
“Well, now, that’s another matter. I’ve never climbed, but I hold the memories of more climbers than you will ever see. I’m an old man. I knew your father’s father, and his grandsire before that. What is it you want to know?”
“Well—” What was it he wanted to know? How could he ask a question that was no more than a gnawing ache in his breast? Still—“What is it all for, Witness? Why are there all those levels above us?”
“Eh? How’s that? Jordan’s name, son—I’m a Witness, not a scientist.”
“Well—I thought you must know. I’m sorry.”
“But I do know. What you want is the lines from the Beginning.”
“I’ve heard them.”
“Hear them again. All your answers are in there, if you’ve the wisdom to see them. Attend me. No—this is a chance for my apprentice to show off his learning. Here, you! The Lines from the Beginning—and mind your rhythm.”
The apprentice wet his lips with his tongue and began:
“In the Beginning there was Jordan, thinking His lonely thoughts alone.
In the Beginning there was darkness, formless, dead, and Man unknown.
Out of the loneness came a longing, out of the longing came a vision,
Out of the dream there came a planning, out of the plan there came decision—
Jordan’s hand was lifted and the Ship was born!
Mile after mile of snug compartments, tank by tank for the golden corn,
Ladder and passage, door and locker, fit for the needs of the yet unborn.
He looked on His work and found it pleasing, meet for a race that was yet to be.
He thought of Man—Man came into being—checked his thought and searched for the key.
Man untamed would shame his Maker, Man unruled would spoil the Plan;
So Jordan made the Regulations, orders to each single man,
Each to a task and each to a station, serving a purpose beyond their ken,
Some to speak and some to listen—order came to the ranks of men.
Crew He created to work at their stations, scientists to guide the Plan.
Over them all He created the Captain, made him judge of the race of Man.
Thus it was in the Golden Age!
Jordan is perfect, all below him lack perfection in their deeds.
Envy, Greed, and Pride of Spirit sought for minds to lodge their seeds.
One there was who gave them lodging—accursed Huff, the first to sin!
His evil counsel stirred rebellion, planted doubt where it had not been;
Blood of martyrs stained the floor plates,
Jordan’s Captain made the Trip. Darkness swallowed up—”
The old man gave the boy the back of his hand, sharp across the mouth. “Try again!”
“From the beginning?”
“No! From where you missed.”
The boy hesitated, then caught his stride:
“Darkness swallowed ways of virtue, Sin prevailed throughout the Ship . . .”
The boy’s voice droned on, stanza after stanza, reciting at great length but with little sharpness of detail the old, old story of sin, rebellion, and the time of darkness. How wisdom prevailed at last and the bodies of the rebel leaders were fed to the Converter. How some of the rebels escaped making the Trip and lived to father the muties. How a new Captain was chosen, after prayer and sacrifice.
Hugh stirred uneasily, shuffling his feet. No doubt the answers to his questions were there, since these were the Sacred Lines, but he had not the wit to understand them. Why? What was it all about? Was there really nothing more to life than eating and sleeping and finally the long Trip? Didn’t Jordan intend for him to understand? Then why this ache in his breast? This hunger that persisted in spite of good eating?
While he was breaking his fast after sleep an orderly came to the door of his uncle’s compartments. “The scientist requires the presence of Hugh Hoyland,” he recited glibly.
Hugh knew that the scientist referred to was Lieutenant Nelson, in charge of the spiritual and physical welfare of the Ship’s sector which included Hugh’s native village. He bolted the last of his breakfast and hurried after the messenger.
“Cadet Hoyland!” he was announced. The scientist looked up from his own meal and said: