Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  He shook Tommy awake. “I can’t get down, kid. Can you unstrap me?"

  The boy blinked and rubbed his eyes. He looked around and seemed to recall his circumstances without dismay. “Sure. Put me down."

  The boy loosened the buckle after some difficulty and the man cautiously unwound himself from his perch. His legs refused him when he tried to stand; they let him and the girl sprawl in the mud.

  “Are you hurt?" he asked her as he sat up..

  “No," she answered soberly.

  He looked around. It was getting steadily lighter and he could see the hills to the west; it now appeared that the water no longer extended between the hills and themselves. To the east was another story; the Salton Sea no longer existed as such. An unbroken sheet of water stretched from miles to the north clear to the southern horizon.

  His car was in sight; the wash was free of water except for casual pools. He walked down, toward the automobile, partly to take the knots out of his legs, pertly to see if the car could ever be salvaged. It was there that he found the tramp.

  The body lay wedged against the right rear wheel, as if carried down there by undertow.

  He walked back toward the kids. “Stay away from the car," he ordered. “Wait here. I’ve got something to do." He went back to the car and found the keys still in the ignition lock. He opened the trunk with some difficulty and got out a short spade he kept for desert mishaps.

  It was not much of a grave, just a shallow trench in the wet sand, deep enough to receive and cover a man, but he promised himself that he would come back and do better. He had no time now. The waters, he thought, would be back with high tide. He must get himself and the children to the hills.

  Once the body was out of sight, he called out to the boy and the girl, “You can come here now." He had one more chore. There was drift about, yucca stalks, bits of wood. He selected two pieces of unequal length, then dug around in his tool chest for bits of wire. He wired the short piece across the longer, in a rough cross, then planted the cross in the sand near the head of the grave.

  He stepped back and looked at it, the kids at his side.

  His lips moved silently for a moment, then he said, “Come on, kids. We got to get out of here." He picked up the little girl, took the boy by the hand, and they walked away to the west, the sun shining on their backs.

  Nothing Ever Happens On The Moon

  Boys’ Life, April - May 1949

  “I never knew a boy from Earth who wasn’t cocky."

  Mr. Andrews frowned at his Senior Patrol Leader.

  “That’s childish, Sam. And no answer. I arrive expecting to find the troop ready to hike. Instead I find you and our visitor about to fight. And both of you Eagle Scouts! What started it?"

  Sam reluctantly produced a clipping. “This, I guess.

  It was from the Colorado Scouting News and read:

  “Troop 48, Denver — LOCAL SCOUT SEEKS SKY-HIGH HONOR. Bruce Hollifield, Eagle Scout, is moving with his family to South Pole, Venus. Those who know Bruce — and who doesn’t — expect him to qualify as Eagle (Venus) in jig time. Bruce will spend three weeks at Luna City, waiting for the Moon-Venus transport. Bruce has been boning up lately on lunar Scouting, and he has already qualified in space suit operation in the vacuum chamber at the Pike’s Peak space port. Cornered, Bruce admitted that he hopes to pass the tests for Eagle Scout (Luna) while on the Moon.

  “If he does — and we’re betting on Bruce! — he’s a dead cinch to become the first Triple Eagle in history.

  “Go to it, Bruce! Denver is proud of you. Show those Moon Scouts what real Scouting is like."

  Mr. Andrews looked up. “Where did this come from?"

  “Uh, somebody sent it to Peewee."

  “Yes?"

  “Well, we all read it and when Bruce came in, the fellows ribbed him. He got sore."

  “Why didn’t you stop it?"

  “Uh … well, I was doing it myself."

  “Humph! Sam, this item is no sillier than the stuff our own Scribe turns in for publication. Bruce didn’t write it, and you yahoos had no business making his life miserable. Send him in. Meantime call the roll."

  “Yes, sir. Uh, Mr. Andrews —"

  “Yes?"

  “What’s your opinion? Can this kid possibly qualify for lunar Eagle in three weeks?"

  “No — and I’ve told him so. But he’s durn well going to have his chance. Which reminds me: you’re his instructor."

  “Me?" Sam looked stricken.

  “You. You’ve let me down, Sam; this is your chance to correct it. Understand me?"

  Sam swallowed. “I guess I do."

  “Send Hollifield in."

  Sam found the boy from Earth standing alone, pretending to study the bulletin board. Sam touched his arm. “The Skipper wants you."

  Bruce whirled around, then stalked away. Sam shrugged and shouted, “Rocket Patrol — fall in!"

  Speedy Owens echoed, “Crescent Patrol — fall in!" As muster ended Mr. Andrews came out of his office, followed by Bruce. The Earth Scout seemed considerably chastened.

  “Mr. Andrews says I’m to report to you."

  “That’s right." They eyed each other cautiously. Sam said, “Look, Bruce — let’s start from scratch."

  “Suits me."

  “Fine. Just tag along with me." At a sign from the Scoutmaster Sam shouted, “By twos! Follow me."

  Troop One jostled out the door, mounted a crosstown slidewalk and rode to East Air Lock.

  Chubby Schneider, troop quartermaster, waited there with two assistants, near a rack of space suits. Duffel was spread around in enormous piles — packaged grub, tanks of water, huge air bottles, frames of heavy wire, a great steel drum, everything needed for pioneers on the airless crust of the Moon.

  Sam introduced Bruce to the Quartermaster. “We’ve got to outfit him, Chubby."

  “That new G.E. job might fit him."

  Sam got the suit and spread it out. The suit was impregnated glass fabric, aluminum-sprayed to silvery whiteness. It closed from crotch to collar with a zippered gasket. It looked expensive; Bruce noticed a plate on the collar: DONATED BY THE LUNA CITY KIWANIS KLUB.

  The helmet was a plastic bowl, silvered except where swept by the eyes of the wearer. There it was transparent, though heavily filtered.

  Bruce’s uniform was stowed in a locker; Chubby handed him a loose-knit coverall. Sam and Chubby stuffed him into the suit and Chubby produced the instrument belt.

  Both edges of the belt zipped to the suit; there were several rows of grippers for the top edge; thus a pleat could be taken. They fastened it with maximum pleat. “How’s that?" asked Sam.

  “The collar cuts my shoulders."

  “It won’t under pressure. If we leave slack, your head will pull out of the helmet like a cork." Sam strapped the air, water, radio, and duffel-rack backpack to Bruce’s shoulders. “Pressure check, Chubby."

  “We’ll dress first." While Chubby and Sam dressed, Bruce located his intake and exhaust valves, the spill valve inside his collar, and the water nipple beside it. He took a drink and inspected his belt.

  Sam and Bruce donned helmets. Sam switched on Bruce’s walkie-talkie, clipped a blood-oxygen indicator to Bruce’s ear, and locked his helmet on. “Stand by for pressure," he said, his words echoing in Bruce’s helmet. Chubby hooked hose from a wall gauge to Bruce’s air intake.

  Bruce felt the collar lift. The air in the suit grew stuffy, the helmet fogged. At thirty pounds Chubby cut the intake, and watched the gauge. Mr. Andrews joined them, a Gargantuan helmeted figure, toting a pack six feet high. “Pressure steady, sir," Chubby reported.

  Sam hooked up Bruce’s air supply. “Open your intake and kick your chin valve before you smother," he ordered. Bruce complied. The stale air rushed out and the helmet cleared. Sam adjusted Bruce’s valves. “Watch that needle," he ordered, pointing to the blood-oxygen dial on Bruce’s belt. “Keep your mix so that reads steady in the white without using your chin valve.
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  “I know."

  “So I’ll say it again. Keep that needle out of the red, or you’ll explain it to Saint Peter."

  The Scoutmaster asked, “What load are you giving him?"

  “Oh," replied Sam, “just enough to steady him — say three hundred pounds, total."

  Bruce figured — at one-sixth gravity that meant fifty pounds weight including himself, his suit, and his pack. “I’ll carry my full share," he objected.

  “We’ll decide what’s best for you," the Scoutmaster snapped. “Hurry up; the troop is ready." He left.

  Sam switched off his radio and touched helmets. “Forget it," he said quietly. “The Old Man is edgy at the start of a hike." They loaded Bruce rapidly — reserve air and water bottles, a carton of grub, short, wide skis and ski poles — then hung him with field gear, first-aid kit, prospector’s hammer, two climbing ropes, a pouch of pitons and snap rings, flashlight, knife. The Moon Scouts loaded up; Sam called, “Come Mr. Andrews handed the lockmaster a list and stepped inside; the three Scouts followed. Bruce felt his suit expand as the air sucked back into the underground city. A light blinked green; Mr. Andrews opened the outer door and Bruce stared across the airless lunar plain.

  It dazzled him. The plain was bright under a blazing Sun. The distant needle-sharp hills seemed painted in colors too flat and harsh. He looked at the sky to rest his eyes.

  It made him dizzy. He had never seen a whole skyful of stars undimmed by air. The sky was blacker than black, crowded with hard, diamond lights.

  “Route march!" the Scoutmaster’s voice rang in his helmet. “Heel and toe. Jack Wills out as pathfinder." A boy left the group in long, floating strides, fifteen feet at a bound. He stopped a hundred yards ahead; the troop formed single column fifty yards behind him. The Pathfinder raised his arm, swung it down, and the troop moved out.

  Mr. Andrews and a Scout joined Sam and Bruce. “Speedy will help you," he told Sam, “until Bruce gets his legs. Move him along. We can’t heel-and-toe and still make our mileage."

  “We’ll move him."

  “Even if we have to carry him," added Speedy.

  The Scoutmaster overtook the troop in long leaps. Bruce wanted to follow. It looked easy — like flying. He had not liked the crack about carrying him. But Sam grasped him by his left belt grip while Speedy seized the one on his right. “Here we go," Sam warned. “Feet on the ground and try to swing in with us."

  Bruce started off confidently. He felt that three days of low gravity in the corridors of Luna City had given him his “legs"; being taught to walk, like a baby, was just hazing.

  Nothing to it — he was light as a bird! True, it was hard to keep heel-and-toe; he wanted to float. He gained speed on a downgrade; suddenly the ground was not there when he reached for it. He threw up his hands.

  He hung head down on his belt and could hear his guides laughing. “Wha’ happened?" he demanded, as they righted him.

  “Keep your feet on the ground."

  “I know what you’re up against," added Speedy, “I’ve been to Earth. Your mass and weight don’t match and your muscles aren’t used to it. You weigh what a baby weighs, Earthside, but you’ve got the momentum of a fat man."

  Bruce tried again. Some stops and turns showed him what Speedy meant. His pack felt like feathers, but unless he banked his turns, it would throw him, even at a walk. It did throw him, several times, before his legs learned.

  Presently, Sam asked, “Think you’re ready for a slow lope?"

  “I guess so."

  “Okay — but remember, if you want to turn, you’ve got to slow down first — or you’ll roll like a hoop. Okay, Speedy. An eight-miler."

  Bruce tried to match their swing. Long, floating strides, like flying. It was flying! Up! … float … brush the ground with your foot and up again. It was better than skating or skiing.

  “Wups!" Sam steadied him. “Get your feet out in front."

  As they swung past, Mr. Andrews gave orders for a matching lope.

  The unreal hills had moved closer; Bruce felt as if he had been flying all his life. “Sam," he said, “do you suppose I can get along by myself?"

  “Shouldn’t wonder. We let go a couple o’ miles back."

  “Huh?" It was true; Bruce began to feel like a Moon hand.

  Somewhat later a boy’s voice called “Heel and toe!"

  The troop dropped into a walk. The pathfinder stood on a rise ahead, holding his skis up. The troop halted and unlashed skis. Ahead was a wide basin filled with soft, powdery stuff.

  Bruce turned to Sam, and for the first time looked back to the west. “Jee … miny Crickets!" he breathed.

  Earth hung over the distant roof of Luna City, in half phase. It was round and green and beautiful, larger than the harvest Moon and unmeasurably more lovely in forest greens, desert browns and glare white of cloud.

  Sam glanced at it. “Fifteen o’clock."

  Bruce tried to read the time but was stumped by the fact that the sunrise line ran mostly across ocean. He questioned Sam. “Huh? See that bright dot on the dark side? That’s Honolulu — figure from there."

  Bruce mulled this over while binding his skis, then stood up and turned around, without tripping. “Hmmm —" said Sam, “you’re used to skis."

  “Got my badge."

  “Well, this is different. Just shuffle along and try to keep your feet."

  Bruce resolved to stay on his feet if it killed him. He let a handful of the soft stuff trickle through his glove. It was light and flaky, hardly packed at all. He wondered what had caused it.

  Mr. Andrews sent Speedy out to blaze trail; Sam and Bruce joined the column. Bruce was hard put to keep up. The loose soil flew to left and right, settling so slowly in the weak gravity that it seemed to float in air — yet a ski pole, swung through such a cloud, cut a knife-sharp hole without swirling it.

  The column swung wide to the left, then back again. Off to the right was a circular depression perhaps fifty yards across; Bruce could not see the bottom. He paused, intending to question Sam; the Scoutmaster’s voice prodded him. “Bruce! Keep moving!"

  Much later Speedy’s voice called out, “Hard ground!" Shortly the column reached it and stopped to remove skis. Bruce switched off his radio and touched his helmet to Sam’s.

  “What was that back where the Skipper yelled at me?"

  “That? That was a morning glory. They’re poison!"

  “A 'morning glory’?"

  “Sort of a sink hole. If you get on the slope, you never get out. Crumbles out from under you and you wind up buried in the bottom. There you stay — until your air gives out. Lot of prospectors die that way. They go out alone and are likely to come back in the dark."

  “How do you know what happens if they go out alone?"

  “Suppose you saw tracks leading up to one and no tracks going away?"

  “Oh!" Bruce felt silly.

  The troop swung into a lope; slowly the hills drew closer and loomed high into the sky. Mr. Andrews called a halt. “Camp," he said. “Sam, spot the shelter west of that outcropping. Bruce, watch what Sam does.

  The shelter was an airtight tent, framed by a half cylinder of woven heavy wire. The frame came in sections. The Scoutmaster’s huge pack was the air bag.

  The skeleton was erected over a ground frame, anchored at corners and over which was spread an asbestos pad. The curved roof and wall sections followed. Sam tested joints with a wrench, then ordered the air bag unrolled. The air lock, a steel drum, was locked into the frame and gasketed to the bag. Meanwhile, two Scouts were rigging a Sun shade.

  Five boys crawled inside and stood up, arms stretched high. The others passed in all the duffel except skis and poles. Mr. Andrews was last in and closed the air lock. The metal frame blocked radio communication; Sam plugged a phone connection from the lock to his helmet. “Testing," he said.

  Bruce could hear the answer, relayed through Sam’s radio. “Ready to inflate."

  “Okay." The bag surged up, filling
the frame. Sam said, “You go on, Bruce. There’s nothing left but to adjust the shade."

  “I’d better watch."

  “Okay." The shade was a flimsy venetian blind, stretched over the shelter. Sam half-opened the slats. “It’s cold inside," he commented, “from expanding gas. But it warms up fast." Presently, coached by phone, he closed them a bit. “Go inside," he urged Bruce. “It may be half an hour before I get the temperature steady."

  “Maybe I should," admitted Bruce. “I feel dizzy."

  Sam studied him. “Too hot?"

  “Yeah, I guess so."

  “You’ve held still in the Sun too long. Doesn’t give the air a chance to circulate. Here." Sam opened Bruce’s supply valve wider; “Go inside."

  Gratefully, Bruce complied.

  As he backed in, and straightened up, two boys grabbed him. They closed his valves, unlocked his helmet, and peeled off his suit. The suit traveled from hand to hand and was racked. Bruce looked around.

  Daylamps were strung from air lock to a curtain at the far end that shut off the sanitary unit. Near this curtain suits and helmets were racked. Scouts were lounging on both sides of the long room. Near the entrance a Scout was on watch at the air conditioner, a blood-oxygen indicator clipped to his ear. Nearby, Mr. Andrews phoned temperature changes to Sam. In the middle of the room Chubby had set up his commissary. He waved. “Hi, Bruce! Siddown — chow in two shakes."

  Two Scouts made room for Bruce and he sat. One of them said, “Y’ever been at Yale?" Bruce had not. “That’s where I’m going," the Scout confided. “My brother’s there now." Bruce began to feel at home.

  When Sam came in Chubby served chow, beef stew, steaming and fragrant, packaged rolls, and bricks of peach ice cream. Bruce decided that Moon Scouts had it soft. After supper, the Bugler got out his harmonica and played. Bruce leaned back, feeling pleasantly drowsy.

  “Hollifield!" Bruce snapped awake. “Let’s try you on first aid."

  For thirty minutes Bruce demonstrated air tourniquets and emergency suit patches, artificial respiration for a man in a space suit, what to do for Sun stroke, for anoxia, for fractures. “That’ll do," the Scoutmaster concluded. “One thing: What do you do if a man cracks his helmet?"