There was no proof, however, that it was what they were looking for. It could have several explanations; perhaps it marked the site of an isolated peak, jutting up from the depths almost to the surface of the Sea. There was only one way to find out.
“You stay here,” said Lawrence. “I’ll go forward on Duster One. Tell me when I’m at the exact center of the spot.”
“D’you think it will be dangerous?”
“It’s not very likely, but there’s no point in us both taking a risk.”
Slowly, Duster One glided across to that enigmatically glowing patch—so obvious to the infrared scanner, yet wholly invisible to the eye.
“A little to the left,” Tom ordered. “Another few meters—you’re nearly there—whoa!”
Lawrence stared at the gray dust upon which his vehicle was floating. At first sight, it seemed as featureless as any other portion of the Sea; then, as he looked more closely, he saw something that raised the goose-pimples on his skin.
When examined very carefully, as he was examining it now, the dust showed an extremely fine pepper-and-salt pattern. That pattern was moving; the surface of the Sea was creeping very slowly toward him, as if blown by an invisible wind.
Lawrence did not like it at all. On the Moon, one learned to be wary of the abnormal and unexplained; it usually meant that something was wrong—or soon would be. This slowly crawling dust was both uncanny and disturbing. If a boat had sunk here once already, anything as small as a ski might be in even greater danger.
“Better keep away,” he advised Duster Two. “There’s something odd here—I don’t understand it.” Carefully, he described the phenomenon to Lawson, who thought it over and answered almost at once: “You say it looks like a fountain in the dust? That’s exactly what it is. We already know there’s a source of heat here. It’s powerful enough to stir up a convection current.”
“What could do that? It can’t be Selene.”
He felt a wave of disappointment sweep over him. It was all a wild-goose chase, as he had feared from the beginning. Some pocket of radioactivity, or an outburst of hot gases released by the quake, had fooled their instruments and dragged them to this desolate spot. And the sooner they left it the better; it might still be dangerous.
“Just a minute,” said Tom. “A vehicle with a fair amount of machinery and twenty-two passengers—that must produce a good deal of heat. Three or four kilowatts, at least. If this dust is in equilibrium, that might be enough to start a fountain.”
Lawrence thought this was very unlikely, but he was now willing to grasp at the slimmest straw. He picked up the thin metal probe, and thrust it vertically into the dust. At first it penetrated with almost no resistance, but as the telescopic extensions added to its length, it became harder and harder to move. By the time he had the full twenty meters out, it needed all his strength to push it downward.
The upper end of the probe disappeared into the dust; he had hit nothing—but he had scarcely expected to succeed on this first attempt. He would have to do the job scientifically and lay out a search pattern.
After a few minutes of cruising back and forth, he had crisscrossed the area with parallel bands of white tape, five meters apart. Like an old-time farmer planting potatoes, he started to move along the first of the tapes, driving his probe into the dust. It was a slow job, for it had to be done conscientiously. He was like a blind man, feeling in the dark with a thin, flexible wand. If what he sought was beyond the reach of his wand, he would have to think of something else. But he would deal with that problem when he came to it.
He had been searching for about ten minutes when he became careless. It required both hands to operate the probe, especially when it neared the limit of its extension. He was pushing with all his strength, leaning over the edge of the ski, when he slipped and fell headlong into the dust.
Pat was conscious of the changed atmosphere as soon as he emerged from the air lock. The reading from The Orange and the Apple had finished some time ago, and a heated argument was now in progress. It stopped when he walked into the cabin, and there was an embarrassing silence while he surveyed the scene. Some of the passengers looked at him out of the corners of their eyes, while the others pretended he wasn’t there.
“Well, Commodore,” he said, “what’s the trouble?”
“There’s a feeling,” Hansteen answered, “that we’re not doing all we could to get out. I’ve explained that we have no alternative but to wait until someone finds us—but not everybody agrees.”
It was bound to come sooner or later, thought Pat. As time ran out, and there was no sign of rescue, nerves would begin to snap, tempers get frayed. There would be calls for action-- any action. It was against human nature to sit still and do nothing in the face of death.
“We’ve been through this over and over again,” he said wearily. “We’re at least ten meters down, and even if we opened the air lock, no one could get up to the surface against the resistance of the dust.”
“Can you be sure of that?” someone asked.
“Quite sure,” Pat answered. “Have you ever tried to swim through sand? You won’t get very far.”
“What about trying the motors?”
“I doubt if they’d budge us a centimeter. And even if they did, we’d move forward—not up.”
“We could all go to the rear; our weight might bring the nose up.
“It’s the strain on the hull I’m worried about,” said Pat. “Suppose I did start the motors—it would be like butting into a brick wall. Heaven knows what damage it might do.”
“But there’s a chance it might work. Isn’t that worth the risk?”
Pat glanced at the Commodore, feeling a little annoyed that he had not come to his support. Hansteen stared straight back at him, as if to say, “I’ve handled this so far, now it’s your turn.” Well, that was fair enough, especially after what Sue had just said. It was time he stood on his own feet, or at least proved that he could do so.
“The danger’s too great,” he said flatly. “We’re perfectly safe here for at least another four days. Long before then, we’ll be found. So why risk everything on a million-to-one chance? If it was our last resort, I’d say yes—but not now.”
He looked round the cabin, challenging anyone to disagree with him. As he did so, he could not help meeting Miss Morley’s eye, nor did he attempt to avoid it. Nevertheless, it was with as much surprise as embarrassment that he heard her say: “Perhaps the Captain is in no great hurry to leave. I notice that we haven’t seen much of him lately—or of Miss Wilkins.”
Why, you prune-faced bitch, thought Pat. Just because no man in his right senses—
“Hold it, Harris!” said the Commodore, in the nick of time. “_I’ll_ deal with this.”
It was the first time that Hansteen had really asserted himself; until now, he had run things easily and quietly, or stood in the background and let Pat get on with the job. But now they were hearing the authentic voice of authority, like a trumpet call across a battlefield. This was no retired astronaut speaking; it was a Commodore of Space.
“Miss Morley,” he said, “that was a very foolish and uncalled-for remark. Only the fact that we are all under considerable strain can possibly excuse it. I think you should apologize to the Captain.”
“It’s true,” she said stubbornly. “Ask him to deny it.”
Commodore Hansteen had not lost his temper in thirty years, and had no intention of losing it now. But he knew when to pretend to lose it, and in this case little simulation was necessary. He was not only angry with Miss Morley; he was annoyed with Pat, and felt that he had let him down. Of course, there might be nothing at all in Miss Morley’s accusation, but Pat and Sue had certainly spent a devil of a long time over a simple job. There were occasions when the appearance of innocence was almost as important as the thing itself. He remembered an old Chinese proverb: “Do not stoop to tie your laces in your neighbor’s melon patch.”
“I don’t give a damn,”
he said in his most blistering voice, “about the relations, if any, between Miss Wilkins and the Captain. That’s their own affair, and as long as they do their jobs efficiently, we’ve no right to interfere. Are you suggesting that Captain Harris is not doing his job?”
“Well—I wouldn’t say that.”
“Then please don’t say anything. We have enough problems on our hands already, without manufacturing any more.”
The other passengers had sat listening with that mixture of embarrassment and enjoyment which most men feel when they overhear a quarrel in which they have no part. Though, in a very real sense, this did concern everyone aboard Selene, for it was the first challenge to authority, the first sign that discipline was cracking. Until now, this group had been welded into a harmonious whole, but now a voice had been raised against the elders of the tribe.
Miss Morley might be a neurotic old maid, but she was also a tough and determined one. The Commodore saw, with understandable qualms, that she was getting ready to answer him.
No one would ever know just what she intended to say; for, at that moment, Mrs. Schuster let loose a shriek altogether in keeping with her dimensions.
When a man falls on the Moon, he usually has time to do something about it, for his nerves and muscles are designed to deal with a sixfold greater gravity. Yet when Chief Engineer Lawrence toppled off the ski, the distance was so short that he had no time to react. Almost at once, he hit the dust—and was engulfed in darkness.
He could see absolutely nothing, except for a very faint fluorescence from the illuminated instrument panel inside his suit. With extreme caution, he began to feel around in the softly resisting, half-fluid substance in which he was floundering, seeking some solid object for support. There was nothing; he could not even guess which direction was up.
A mind-sapping despair, which seemed to drain his body of all its strength, almost overwhelmed him. His heart was thumping with that erratic beat that heralds the approach of panic, and the final overthrow of reason. He had seen other men be- come screaming, struggling animals, and knew that he was moving swiftly to join them.
There was just enough left of his rational mind to remember that only a few minutes ago he had saved Lawson from this same fate, but he was not in a position to appreciate the irony. He had to concentrate all his remaining strength of will on regaining control of himself, and checking the thumping in his chest that seemed about to tear him to pieces.
And then, loud and clear in his helmet speaker, came a sound so utterly unexpected that the waves of panic ceased to batter against the island of his soul. It was Tom Lawson—laughing.
The laughter was brief, and it was followed by an apology.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lawrence—I couldn’t help it. You look so funny there, waving your legs in the sky.”
The Chief Engineer froze in his suit. His fear vanished instantly, to be replaced by anger. He was furious with Lawson, but much more furious with himself.
Of course he had been in no danger; in his inflated suit, he was like a balloon floating upon water, and equally incapable of sinking. Now that he knew what had happened, he could sort matters out by himself. He kicked purposefully with his legs, paddled with his hands, and rolled round his center of gravity—and vision returned as the dust streamed off his helmet. He had sunk, at the most, ten centimeters, and the ski had been within reach all the time. It was a remarkable achievement to have missed it completely while he was flailing around like a stranded octopus.
With as much dignity as he could muster, he grabbed the ski and pulled himself aboard. He did not trust himself to speak, for he was still breathless from his unnecessary exertions, and his voice might betray his recent panic. And he was still angry; he would not have made such a fool of himself in the days when he was working constantly out on the lunar surface. Now he was out of touch. Why, the last time he had worn a suit had been for his annual proficiency check, and then he had never even stepped outside the air lock.
Back on the ski, as he continued with his probing, his mixture of fright and anger slowly evaporated. It was replaced by a mood of thoughtfulness, as he realized how closely—whether he liked it or not—the events of the last half-hour had linked him with Lawson. True, the astronomer had laughed when he was floundering in the dust, but he must have been an irresistibly funny sight. And Lawson had actually apologized for his mirth. A short time ago, both laughter and apology would have been equally unthinkable.
Then Lawrence forgot everything else; for his probe hit an obstacle, fifteen meters down.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Mrs. Schuster screamed, Commodore Hansteen’s first reaction was: My God—the woman’s going to have hysterics. Half a second later, he needed all his will power not to join her.
From outside the hull, where there had been no sound for three days except the whispering of the dust, there was a noise at last. It was unmistakable, and so was its meaning. Something metallic was scraping along the hull.
Instantly, the cabin was filled with shouts, cheers, and cries of relief. With considerablc. difficulty, Hansteen managed to make himself heard.
“They’ve found us,” he said, “but they may not know it. If we work together, they’ll have a better chance of spotting us. Pat, you try the radio. The rest of us will rap on the hull—the old Morse V sign—DIT DIT DIT DAH. Come on—all together!”
Selene reverberated with a ragged volley of dots and dashes, which slowly became synchronized into one resounding tattoo.
“Hold it!” said Hansteen a minute later. “Everyone listen carefully!”
After the noise, the silence was uncanny—even unnerving. Pat had switched off the air pumps and fans, so that the only sound aboard the cruiser was the beating of twenty-two hearts.
The silence dragged on and on. Could that noise, after all, have been nothing but some contraction or expansion of Selene’s own hull? Or had the rescue party—if it was a rescue party—missed them and passed on across the empty face of the Sea?
Abruptly, the scratching came again. Hansteen checked the renewed enthusiasm with a wave of his hand.
“_Listen_, for God’s sake,” he entreated. “Let’s see if we can make anything of it.”
The scratching lasted only for a few seconds before being followed once again by that agonizing silence. Presently someone said quietly, more to break the suspense than to make any useful contribution, “That sounded like a wire being dragged past. Maybe they’re trawling for us.”
“Impossible,” answered Pat. “The resistance would be too great, especially at this depth. It’s more likely to be a rod probing up and down.”
“Anyway,” said the Commodore, “there’s a search party within a few meters of us. Give them another tattoo. Once again—all together—“
DIT DIT DIT DAH . . . .
DIT DIT DIT DAH . . . .
Through Selene’s double hull and out into the dust throbbed the fateful opening of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, as a century earlier it had pulsed across Occupied Europe. In the pilot’s seat, Pat Harris was saying again and again, with desperate urgency, “_Selene_ calling. Are you receiving? Over,” and then listening for an eternal fifteen seconds before he repeated the transmission. But the ether remained as silent as it had been ever since the dust had swallowed them up.
Aboard Auriga, Maurice Spenser looked anxiously at the clock.
“Dammit,” he said, “the skis should have been there long ago. When was their last message?”
“Twenty-five minutes ago,” said the ship’s Communications Officer. “The half-hourly report should be coming in soon, whether they’ve found anything or not.”
“Sure you’re still on the right frequency?”
“You stick to your business and I’ll stick to mine,” retorted the indignant radioman.
“Sorry,” replied Spenser, who had learned long ago when to apologize quickly. “I’m afraid my nerves are jumping.”
He rose from his seat, and started to ma
ke a circuit of Auriga’s little control room. After he had bumped himself painfully against an instrument panel—he had not yet grown accustomed to lunar gravity, and was beginning to wonder if he ever would—he got himself under control once more.
This was the worst part of his job, the waiting until he knew whether or not he had a story. Already, he had incurred a small fortune in expenses. They would be nothing compared with the bills that would soon be accumulating if he gave Captain Anson the order to go ahead. But in that event his worries would be over, for he would have his scoop.
“Here they are,” said the Communications Officer suddenly. “Two minutes ahead of time. Something’s happened.”
“I’ve hit something,” said Lawrence tersely, “but I can’t tell what it is.”
“How far down?” asked Lawson and both pilots simultaneously.
“About fifteen meters. Take me two meters to the right. I’ll try again.”
He withdrew the probe, then drove it in again when the ski had moved to the new position.
“Still there,” he reported, “and at the same depth. Take me on another two meters.”
Now the obstacle was gone, or was too deep for the probe to reach.
“Nothing there. Take me back in the other direction.”
It would be a slow and tiring job, charting the outlines of whatever lay buried down there. By such tedious methods, two centuries ago, men began to sound the oceans of Earth, lowering weighted lines to the sea bed and then hauling them up again. It was a pity, thought Lawrence, that he had no echosounder that would operate here, but he doubted if either acoustic or radio waves could penetrate through more than a few meters of the dust.
What a fool—he should have thought of that before! That was what had happened to Selene’s radio signals. If she had been swallowed by the dust, it would have blanketed and absorbed her transmissions. But at this range, if he really was sitting on top of the cruiser . . .
A Fall of Moondust Page 11