Now the raft was rapidly taking shape. Be sure to have plenty of spare nuts and bolts, Lawrence told himself. He had seen at least six dropped in the dust, which had instantly swallowed them. And there went a wrench. Make an order that all tools must be tied to the raft even when in use, however inconvenient that might be.
Fifteen minutes—not bad, considering that the men were working in vacuum and therefore were hampered by their suits. The raft could be extended in any direction as required, but this would be enough to start with. This first section alone could carry over twenty tons, and it would be some time before they unloaded that weight of equipment on the site.
Satisfied with this stage of the project, Lawrence left the Embarkation Building while his assistants were still dismantling the raft. Five minutes later (that was one advantage of Port Roris—you could get anywhere in five minutes), he was in the local engineering depot. What he found there was not quite so satisfactory.
Supported on a couple of trestles was a two-meter-square mock-up of Selene’s roof—an exact copy of the real thing, made from the same materials. Only the outer sheet of aluminized fabric that served as a sun shield was missing; it was so thin and flimsy that it would not affect the test.
The experiment was an absurdly simple one, involving only three ingredients: a pointed crowbar, a sledge hammer, and a frustrated engineer, who, despite strenuous efforts, had not yet succeeded in hammering the bar through the roof.
Anyone with a little knowledge of lunar conditions would have guessed at once why he had failed. The hammer, obviously, had only a sixth of its terrestrial weight; therefore—equally obviously—it was that much less effective.
The reasoning would have been completely false. One of the hardest things for the layman to understand was the difference between weight and mass, and the inability to do so had led to countless accidents. For weight was an arbitrary characteristic; you could change it by moving from one world to another. On Earth, that hammer would weigh six times as much as it did here; on the sun, it would be almost two hundred times heavier; and in space it would weigh nothing at all.
But in all three places, and indeed throughout the Universe, its mass or inertia would be exactly the same. The effort needed to set it moving at a certain speed, and the impact it would produce when stopped, would be constant through all space and time. On a nearly gravityless asteroid, where it weighed less than a feather, that hammer would pulverize a rock just as effectively as on Earth.
“What’s the trouble?” said Lawrence.
“The roof’s too springy,” explained the engineer, rubbing the sweat from his brow. “The crowbar just bounces back every time it’s hit.”
“I see. But will that happen when we’re using a fifteen-meter pipe, with dust packed all around it? That may absorb the recoil.”
“Perhaps—but look at this.”
They kneeled beneath the mock-up and inspected the underside of the roof. Chalk lines had been drawn upon it to indicate the position of the electric wiring, which had to be avoided at all costs.
“This Fiberglas is so tough, you can’t make a clean hole through it. When it does yield, it splinters and tears. See-it’s already begun to star. I’m afraid that if we try this bruteforce approach, we’ll crack the roof.”
“And we can’t risk that,” Lawrence agreed. “Well, drop the idea. If we can’t pile drive, we’ll have to bore. Use a drill, screwed on the end of the pipe so it can be detached easily. How are you getting on with the rest of the plumbing?”
“Almost ready—it’s all standard equipment. We should be finished in two or three hours.”
“I’ll be back in two,” said Lawrence. He did not add, as some men would have done, “I want it finished by then.” His staff was doing its utmost, and one could neither bully nor cajole trained and devoted men into working faster than their maximum. Jobs like this could not be rushed, and the deadline for Selene’s oxygen supply was still three days away. In a few hours, if all went well, it would have been pushed into the indefinite future.
Unfortunately, all was going very far from well.
Commodore Hansteen was the first to recognize the slow, insidious danger that was creeping up upon them. He had met it once before, when he had been wearing a faulty space suit on Ganymede-an incident he had no wish to recall, but had never really forgotten.
“Pat,” he said quietly, making sure that no one could overhear. “Have you noticed any difficulty in breathing?”
Pat looked startled, then answered, “Yes, now that you mention it. I’d put it down to the heat.”
“So did I at first. But I know these symptoms—especially the quick breathing. We’re running into carbon-dioxide poisoning.”
“But that’s ridiculous. We should be all right for another three days-unless something has gone wrong with the air purifiers.”
“I’m afraid it has. What system do we use to get rid of the carbon dioxide?”
“Straight chemical absorption. It’s a very simple, reliable setup; we’ve never had any trouble with it before.”
“Yes, but it’s never had to work under these conditions before. I think the heat may have knocked out the chemicals. Is there any way we can check them?”
Pat shook his head.
“No. The access hatch is on the outside of the hull.”
“Sue, my dear,” said a tired voice which they hardly recognized as belonging to Mrs. Schuster, “do you have anything to fix a headache?”
“If you do,” said another passenger, “I’d like some as well.”
Pat and the Commodore looked at each other gravely. The classic symptoms were developing with textbook precision.
“How long would you guess?” said Pat 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 Sue. 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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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’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 civilization needed all the talent that it could find, merely to maintain itself, any other educational policy would have been suicide. Tom 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, fo
r 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 looseness 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 when 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 teleeamera 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 drag Lawson in front of a camera to explain the technique of infrared 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 summarized 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 recognized him.”
It was something of a feat to have squeezed seven men into Selene’s air lock, 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 levelheaded—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. 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-toofamiliar 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 realized 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 felt like addressing a few well-chosen words to Miss Morley; then he realized that to do so would sp oil 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 t
o admit that she had guts. He had a brief, nightmare glimpse of the future that her words suggested. Te hours alone with Miss Morley, and no one else to talk to.
He glanced at the five trouble shooters. The nearest to Mi 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 pinprick.”
Sue 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 is 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 these 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.”