Hansteen looked at his watch. There was still an hour to go before their frugal lunch. They could revert to Shane, or start (despite Miss Morley’s objections) on that preposterous historical novel. But it seemed a pity to break off now, while everyone was in a receptive mood.
“If you all feel the same way about it,” said the Commodore, “I’ll call another witness.”
“I’ll second that” was the quick reply from Barrett, who now considered himself safe from further inquisition. Even the poker players were in favor, so the Clerk of the Court pulled another name out of the coffeepot in which the ballot papers had been mixed.
He looked at it with some surprise, and hesitated before reading it out.
“What’s the matter?” said the Court. “Is it your name?”
“Er—no,” replied the Clerk, glancing at learned Counsel with a mischievous grin. He cleared his throat and called: “Mrs. Myra Schuster!”
“Your Honor—I object!” Mrs. Schuster rose slowly, a formidable figure even though she had lost a kilogram or two since leaving Port Roris. She pointed to her husband, who looked embarrassed and tried to hide behind his notes. “Is it fair for him to ask me questions?”
“I’m willing to stand down,” said Irving Schuster, even before the Court could say “objection sustained.”
“I am prepared to take over the examination,” said the Commodore, though his expression rather belied this. “But is there anyone else who feels qualified to do so?”
There was a short silence; then, to Hansteen’s surprised relief, one of the poker players stood up.
“Though I’m not a lawyer, your Honor, I have some slight legal experience. I’m willing to assist.”
“Very good, Mr. Harding. Your witness.”
Harding took Schuster’s place at the front of the cabin, and surveyed his captive audience. He was a well-built, tough-looking man who somehow did not fit his own description, that he was a bank executive. Hansteen had wondered, fleetingly, if this was the truth.
“Your name is Myra Schuster?”
“Yes.”
“And what, Mrs. Schuster, are you doing on the Moon?”
The witness smiled.
“That’s an easy one to answer. They told me I’d weigh only twenty kilos here-so I came.”
“For the record, why did you want to weigh twenty kilos?”
Mrs. Schuster looked at Harding as if he had said something very stupid.
“I used to be a dancer once,” she said, and her voice was suddenly wistful, her expression faraway. “I gave that up, of course, when I married Irving.”
“Why ‘of course,’ Mrs. Schuster?”
The witness glanced at her husband, who stirred a little uneasily, looked as if he might raise an objection, but then thought better of it.
“Oh, he said it wasn’t dignified. And I guess he was right—the kind of dancing I used to do.”
This was too much for Mr. Schuster. He shot to his feet, ignoring the Court completely, and protested: “Really, Myra! There’s no need—“
“Oh, vector it out, Irv!” she answered, the incongruously oldfashioned slang bringing back a faint whiff of the nineties. “What does it matter now? Let’s stop acting and be ourselves. I don’t mind these folks knowing that I used to dance at the ‘Blue Asteroid’—or that you got me off the hook when the cops raided the place.”
Irving subsided, spluttering, while the Court dissolved in a roar of laughter which his Honor did nothing to quell. This release of tensions was precisely what he had hoped for; when people were laughing, they could not be afraid.
And he began to wonder still more about Mr. Harding, whose casual yet shrewd questioning had brought this about. For a man who said he was not a lawyer, he was doing pretty well. It would be interesting to see how he performed in the witness box, when it was Schuster’s turn to ask the questions.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At last there was something to break the featureless flatness of the Sea of Thirst. A tiny but brilliant splinter of light had edged itself above the horizon, and as the dust-skis raced forward, it slowly climbed against the stars. Now it was joined by another—and a third. The peaks of the Mountains of Inaccessibility were rising over the edge of the Moon.
As usual, there was no way of judging their distance; they might have been small rocks a few paces away, or not part of the Moon at all, but a giant, jagged world, millions of kilometers out in space. In reality, they were fifty kilometers distant; the dust-skis would be there in half an hour.
Tom Lawson looked at them with thankfulness. Now there was something to occupy his eyes and mind; he felt he would have gone crazy if he had had to stare at this apparently infinite plain for much longer. He was annoyed with himself for being so illogical. He knew that the horizon was really very close and that the whole Sea was only a small part of the Moon’s quite limited surface. Yet as he sat here in his space suit, apparently getting nowhere, he was reminded of those horrible dreams in which you struggled with all your might to escape from some frightful peril but remained stuck helplessly in the same place. Tom often had such dreams, and worse ones.
But now he could see that they were making progress, and that their long, black shadow was not frozen to the ground, as it sometimes seemed. He focused the detector on the rising peaks, and obtained a strong reaction. As he had expected, the exposed rocks were almost at boiling point where they faced the sun. Though the lunar day had barely started, the Mountains were already burning. It was much cooler down here at “Sea” level. The surface dust would not reach its maximum temperature until noon, still seven days away. That was one of the biggest points in his favor; though the day had already begun, he still had a sporting chance of detecting any faint source of heat before the full fury of the day had overwhelmed it.
Twenty minutes later, the mountains dominated the sky, and the skis slowed down to half-speed.
“We don’t want to overrun their track,” explained Lawrence. “If you look carefully, just below that double peak on the right, you’ll see a dark vertical line. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the gorge leading to Crater Lake. The patch of heat you detected is three kilometers to the west of it, so it’s still out of sight from here, below our horizon. Which direction do you want to approach from?”
Lawson thought this over. It would have to be from the north or the south. If he came in from the west, he would have those burning rocks in his field of view; the eastern approach was even more impossible, for that would be into the eye of the rising sun.
“Swing round to the north,” he said. “And let me know when we’re within two kilometers of the spot.”
The skis accelerated once more. Though there was no hope of detecting anything yet, he started to scan back and forth over the surface of the Sea. This whole mission was based upon one assumption: that the upper layers of dust were normally at a uniform temperature, and that any thermal disturbance was due to man. If this was wrong—
It was wrong. He had miscalculated completely. On the viewing screen, the Sea was a mottled pattern of light and shade, or, rather, of warmth and coldness. The temperature differences were only fractions of a degree, but the picture was hopelessly confused. There was no possibility at all of locating any individual source of heat in that thermal maze.
Sick at heart, Tom Lawson looked up from the viewing screen and stared incredulously across the dust. To the unaided eye, it was still absolutely featureless—the same unbroken gray it had always been. But by infrared, it was as dappled as the sea during a cloudy day on Earth, when the waters are covered with shifting patterns of sunlight and shadow.
Yet there were no clouds here to cast their shadows on this arid sea; this dappling must have some other cause. Whatever it might be, Tom was too stunned to look for the scientific explanation. He had come all the way to the Moon, had risked neck and sanity on this crazy ride—and at the end of it all, some quirk of nature had ruined his carefully plann
ed experiment. It was the worst possible luck, and he felt very sorry for himself.
Several minutes later, he got around to feeling sony for the people aboard Selene.
“So,” said the skipper of the Auriga, with exaggerated calm, “you would like to land on the Mountains of Inaccessibility. That’s a verra interesting idea.”
It was obvious to Spenser that Captain Anson had not taken him seriously; he probably thought he was dealing with a crazy newsman who had no conception of the problems involved. That would have been correct twelve hours before, when the whole plan was only a vague dream in Spenser’s mind. But now he had all the information at his fingertips, and knew exactly what he was doing.
“I’ve heard you boast, Captain, that you could land this ship within a meter of any given point. Is that right?”
“Well—with a little help from the computer.”
“That’s good enough. Now take a look at this photograph”
“What is it? Glasgow on a wet Saturday night?”
“I’m afraid it’s badly overenlarged, but it shows all we want to know. It’s a blowup of this area—just below the western peak of the Mountains. I’ll have a much better copy in a few hours, and an accurate contour map—Lunar Survey’s drawing one now, working from the photos in their files. My point is that there’s a wide ledge here—wide enough for a dozen ships to land. And it’s fairly flat, at least at these points here, and here. So a landing would be no problem at all, from your point of view.”
“No technical problem, perhaps. But have you any idea what it would cost?”
“That’s my affair, Captain—or my network’s. We think it may be worthwhile, if my hunch comes off.”
Spenser could have said a good deal more, but it was bad business to show how much you needed someone else’s wares. This might well be the news story of the decade-the first space rescue that had ever taken place literally under the eyes of the TV cameras. There had been enough accidents and disasters in space, heaven knows, but they had lacked all elements of drama or suspense. Those involved had died instantly, or had been beyond all hope of rescue when their predicament was discovered. Such tragedies produced headlines, but not sustained human-interest stories like the one he sensed here.
“There’s not only the money,” said the Captain, though his tone implied that there were few matters of greater importance. “Even if the owners agree, you’ll have to get special clearance from Space Control, Earthside.”
“I know; someone is working on it now. That can be organized.”
“And what about Lloyd’s? Our policy doesn’t cover little jaunts like this.”
Spenser leaned across the table, and prepared to drop his city-buster.
“Captain,” he said slowly, “Interplanet News is prepared to deposit a bond for the insured value of the ship-which I happen to know is a somewhat inflated six million four hundred and twenty-five thousand and fifty sterling dollars.”
Captain Anson blinked twice, and his whole attitude changed immediately. Then, looking very thoughtful, he poured himself another drink.
“I never imagined I’d take up mountaineering at my time of life,” he said. “But if you’re fool enough to plonk down six million stollars—then my heart’s in the highlands.”
To the great relief of her husband, Mrs. Schuster’s evidence had been interrupted by lunch. She was a talkative lady, and was obviously delighted at the first opportunity she had had in years of letting her hair down. Her career, such as it was, had not been particularly distinguished when fate and the Chicago police had brought it to a sudden close, but she had certainly got around, and had known many of the great performers at the turn of the century. To not a few of the older passengers, her reminiscences brought back memories of their own youth, and faint echoes from the songs of the nineteen-nineties. At one point, without any protest from the Court, she led the entire company in a rendering of that durable favorite, “Space-suit Blues.” As a morale-builder, the Commodore decided, Mrs. Schuster was worth her weight in gold—and that was saying a good deal.
After lunch (which some of the slower eaters managed to stretch to half an hour, by chewing each mouthful fifty times) book-reading was resumed, and the agitators for The Orange and the Apple finally got their way. Since the theme was English, it was decided that Mr. Barrett was the only man for the job. He protested with vigor, but all his objections were shouted down.
“Oh, very well,” he said reluctantly. “Here we go. Chapter One. Drury Lane. 1665 . . .”
The author certainly wasted no time. Within three pages, Sir Isaac Newton was explaining the law of gravitation to Mistress Gwyn, who had already hinted that she would like to do something in return. What form that appreciation would take, Pat Harris could readily guess, but duty called him. This entertainment was for the passengers; the crew had work to do.
“There’s still one emergency locker I’ve not opened,” said Miss Wilkins as the air-lock door thudded softly behind them, shutting off Mr. Barrett’s carefully clipped accents. “We’re low on crackers and jam, but the compressed meat is holding out.”
“I’m not surprised,” answered Pat. “Everyone seems to be getting sick of it. Let’s see those inventory sheets.”
The stewardess handed over the typed sheets, now much annotated with pencil marks.
“We’ll start with this box. What’s inside it?”
“Soap and paper towels.”
“Well, we can’t eat them. And this one?”
“Candy. I was saving it for the celebration—when they find us.”
“That’s a good idea, but I think you might break some of it out this evening. One piece for every passenger, as a nightcap. And this?”
“A thousand cigarettes.”
“Make sure that no one sees them. I wish you hadn’t told me.” Pat grinned wryly at Sue and passed on to the next item. It was fairly obvious that food was not going to be a major problem, but they had to keep track of it. He knew the ways of Administration; after they were rescued, sooner or later some human or electronic clerk would insist on a strict accounting of all the food that had been used.
After they were rescued. Did he really believe that this was going to happen? They had been lost for more than two days, and there had not been the slightest sign that anyone was looking for them. He was not sure what signs there could be, but he had expected some.
He stood brooding in silence, until Sue asked anxiously: “What’s the trouble, Pat? Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no,” he said sarcastically. “We’ll be docking at Base in five minutes. It’s been a pleasant trip, don’t you think?”
Sue stared at him incredulously; then a flush spread over her cheeks, and her eyes began to brim with tears.
“I’m sorry,” said Pat, instantly contrite. “I didn’t mean that. It’s been a big strain for us both, and you’ve been wonderful. I don’t know what we’d have done without you, Sue.”
She dabbed her nose with a handkerchief, gave a brief smile, and answered: “That’s all right; I understand.” They were both silent for a moment. Then she added: “Do you really think we’re going to get out of this?”
He gave a gesture of helplessness.
“Who can tell? Anyway, for the sake of the passengers, we’ve got to appear confident. We can be certain that the whole Moon’s looking for us. I can’t believe it will take much longer.”
“But even if they find us, how are they going to get us out?”
Pat’s eyes wandered to the external door, only a few centimeters away. He could touch it without moving from this spot; indeed, if he immobilized the safety interlock, he could open it, for it swung inward. On the other side of that thin metal sheet were unknown tons of dust that would come pouring in, like water into a sinking ship, if there was the slightest crack through which they could enter. How far above them was the surface? That was a problem that had worried him ever since they had gone under, but there seemed no way of finding out.
 
; Nor could he answer Sue’s question. It was hard to think beyond the possibility of being found. If that happened, then surely rescue would follow. The human race would not let them die, once it had discovered them alive.
But this was wishful thinking, not logic. Hundreds of times in the past, men and women had been trapped as they were now, and all the resources of great nations had been unable to save them. There were the miners behind rockfalls, sailors in sunken submarines—and, above all, astronauts in ships on wild orbits, beyond possibility of interception. Often they had been able to talk freely with their friends and relatives until the very end. That had happened only two years ago, when Cassiopeia’s main drive had jammed, and all her energies had been poured into hurling her away from the sun. She was out there now, heading toward Canopus, on one of the most precisely measured orbits of any space vehicle. The astronomers would be able to pinpoint her to within a few thousand kilometers for the next million years. That must have been a great consolation to her crew, now in a tomb more permanent than any Pharaoh’s.
Pat tore his mind away from this singularly profitless reverie. Their luck had not yet run out, and to anticipate disaster might be to invite it.
“Let’s hurry up and finish this inventory. I want to hear how Nell is making out with Sir Isaac.”
That was a much more pleasant train of thought, especially when you were standing so close to a very attractive and scantily dressed girl. In a situation like this, thought Pat, women had one great advantage over men. Sue still looked fairly smart, despite the fact that nothing much was left of her uniform in this tropical heat. But he, like all the men aboard Selene, felt scratchily uncomfortable with his three days’ growth of beard, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Sue did not seem to mind the stubble, though, when he abandoned the pretense of work and moved up so close that his bristles rubbed against her cheek. On the other hand, she did not show any enthusiasm. She merely stood there, in front of the half-empty locker, as if she had expected this and was not in the least surprised. It was a disconcerting reaction, and after a few seconds Pat drew away.