by Homer Hickam
Teller followed the tracks across a crater field and then across a plain of exposed basalt toward some rounded hills. After a few miles, he saw where the spiderwalker had stopped and another spiderwalker had joined it. A chill went up his spine. Two spiderwalkers meant certainly this was no lunatic he was following but some kind of military operation. He could tell by the boot prints that the two drivers had gotten off their machines, then remounted because the dual tracks of the two spiderwalkers continued on, still southward. Teller studied the horizon and then drove to the top of a small hill, got out, and switched on the binoculars in his helmet view port.
A few miles away, more or less—distance being difficult to judge on the moon even for an old hand in the wayback like Teller—he observed a black dot that didn’t appear to be a regular feature. He got back in the fastbug and drove until he found a crowhopper lying sprawled on its back beside a spiderwalker.
The tracks showed that the other spiderwalker had continued on. Teller inspected the crowhopper, which appeared to be dead, then stripped it of its armor and saw it was wearing a standard ECP suit. Teller pulled off the crowhopper’s helmet.
Its eyeballs were just blots of blood and its ears had bled out.
When he turned the helmet over, Teller saw there was a small hole in the back. It looked as if a laser had bored through it.
Teller searched the thing for any identification, but there was nothing. He took a few pix with his helmetcam. The thing— Teller couldn’t bring himself to think of it as a man—was normal-size, not the giant Crater had described. After stripping off its ECP suit, Teller saw it had a myriad of tattoos on its body. One of them said “Kill them all.” Another said “Death is my trade.” There were more such phrases, all praising death, doom, and destruction. The artwork included terrible and fantastic beasts, blood dripping from their fangs and lips.
There was little else to see. Teller took more pix of the creature, then tossed the armor and the bloody helmet in the fastbug and drove back along his path. Along the way, he felt as if he were being watched, but though he stopped twice to look over his shoulder, he saw no one, just the moon . . . the beautiful, deadly moon.
:::
SIXTEEN
At the inn, Teller showed Crater and Maria the pix he’d taken, the armor, and the pierced helmet of the dead crowhopper.
“It’s not the one who attacked me,” Crater said. “The armor’s too small.”
“What could punch through a helmet like that?” Maria wondered, picking it up and pushing her finger through the irregular hole. It just barely fit.
“Nothing that I know of,” Teller answered. “A battle-laser makes a much bigger hole. Maybe some kind of new weapon.”
Crater was anxious to hear if there was any sign of the gillie but Teller told him there wasn’t, though he’d looked around the spiderwalker. Crater kept reminding himself the gillie was just a biological machine that couldn’t really think or feel. Still he said with a mournful tone, “I hoped it would get away.”
Teller’s reply was disdainful. “Even if it did, it’s full sunlight, Crater. It would die out there.”
“A gillie can take full sunlight,” Crater replied. “It’s always exposed when I’m on the scrapes.”
Teller seemed hesitant to suggest another possibility.
“Maybe that crowhopper killed it. From what you told me, it’d be plenty mad at it. You can kill a gillie, can’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Crater admitted. “I never thought much about it.”
Petro strolled over. “Before we drive another mile, Captain,” he said, “the other drivers and I want to know where we stand.
You need to tell us what’s out there.”
Teller glared at Petro, then said, “Tell the drivers to meet me in the lobby.”
When Teller joined the drivers, he noted there were more than a few of them with expressions of contempt. Still other faces were blank, impossible to read. Teller preferred the ones he could read to the ones he couldn’t. A man with a blank face was a dangerous man. The others could be watched and handled.
“I’ve talked to the Colonel so he knows our situation,”
Teller said. “I followed a spiderwalker track and after a while, two of them. Not too much farther along, I found a dead crowhopper. There was a hole burned in the back of its helmet.
That’s all I know.”
Klum, his broken arm in a sling, stood up. “Look, Captain, we need to get on back to Moontown, get ourselves armed guards, then try this again. It’s crazy to go on.”
“Your opinion is noted, Klum, and it will be given the weight it deserves,” Teller said. “How’s that broken arm, by the way?”
“It aches and those little critters the innkeeper’s wife put inside me give me the heebie-jeebies.”
“You’ll be healed and able to drive in a week,” Teller said.
“For now, you’re riding with Mutt. He needs his rest, being the delicate creature that he is, so he may pay you something when you’re able to drive for him.”
The drivers chuckled at Teller’s lame attempt at humor, then Irish spoke up. “Captain, it’s clear you’ve decided we’re going ahead. I’m going to wear my suit with my helmet on from here on, and I recommend that’s what we all do so we can get out of our trucks in a hurry.”
“That’s fine, Irish,” Teller said. “Any driver wants to follow your suggestion, I’ve got no objection. Just keep in mind most suits need refurbishment every one thousand hours. Keep an eye on them. All right, gentlemen and ladies. Mount up. We need to get across the moon.”
Crater had asked for permission to drive Petro’s truck for a while, just to be certain the new wheel bearing was turning properly. Maria took the lead in Crater’s fastbug, since it was faster than hers, and Teller brought up the rear with Maria’s fastbug in tow behind the chuckwagon. “I’ll need to go a little slow at first,” Crater told Teller.
“Don’t fall behind,” Teller said. “And if you break down, call me.”
“Oh, you can be sure I’ll have him do that, Captain,” Petro said from the driver’s compartment. Both he and Crater were in their ECP suits. Although they weren’t wearing their helmets, their skull buckets were within arm’s reach.
The convoy moved out, with Crater falling in behind the chuckwagon. Before long, the line of trucks was rolling along at a good clip, following the dustway through several crater fields and around a few small hills. The sun and the Earth were both visible, the dust below turning a shimmering luster of silver. The shadows within the pale-lipped craters were a tawny black. In direct sun, the temperature according to the truck gauge was a steady 260 degrees Fahrenheit although in the shadows, it was minus 290 degrees, about the same as every day on the scrapes when it wasn’t in the long shadow.
Petro was looking at the Earth and its swirling clouds. “I wonder what weather is like,” he said. “Here, all we have is night and day.”
“You’ve seen vidpix of tornadoes and hurricanes and such,” Crater said.
“I don’t mean that kind of weather. Here it’s boiling when it’s light, it’s the deep freeze when it’s dark. What would it be like if it was just average? And what would it be like to have rain? Can you imagine such a thing, Crater? I recall Asteroid Al saying it made a sound on the roof that was like music being played. It could even lull you to sleep.”
“I was in the maintenance shed one time,” Crater remarked, “when a loader accidentally dumped dust on top of it. The mechanic in there said it sounded like a heavy rain.”
“I bet it didn’t sound like rain at all,” Petro said. “Water would have a soft sound, not like a bunch of rocks.”
“Well,” Crater said, “I’ll take the moon over Earth any day, rain or no rain.”
“The ignorant speaks of that which he has no knowledge,”
Petro accused.
Crater decided to stop talking to Petro and pay attention to the fuel cell that was producing erratic power. Reluctantly, h
e called Teller, told him his problem, and said he was going to stop to see about it. “Okay, but don’t tarry,” Teller replied.
Crater wasn’t about to tarry. Being alone on the dustway was obviously not a good idea but he felt like he had no choice.
“The microbes need a boost to make their energy transfer,” he said, “so we’ll put up the solar panels and let them soak a bit.
Let’s put our helmets on, just in case.”
Petro pulled on his helmet and pushed his seat back. “Fine, whatever. I’m going to take a nap.”
Crater wouldn’t have minded a nap himself. He thought briefly that he should tell the gillie to keep watch and to wake him when the solars had done their job—but then he remembered the gillie was gone. He couldn’t help but miss the little thing, although it was nothing more than a blob of slime mold. He also wished he’d told it just once that he liked having it around, although a machine—even one made of organic cells—didn’t need to hear such things.
After a soak of thirty minutes, Crater started the truck and was pleased to see the fuel cell gauges turn green. Petro awoke and yawned. “Want me to drive?” he asked.
“I’m good,” Crater said. “We should catch up with the convoy in no time with all this power.” He pressed the accelerator and watched the speedometer tick up.
As predicted, in about fifteen minutes, Crater drove the truck up a rise and was pleased to see the convoy just ahead— although he was surprised to see it was stopped. Some of the trucks were parked at odd angles too, and two of them were off the dustway entirely. “Something’s wrong,” Petro said. “Maybe we ought to take a look before we go down there.”
Crater stopped and turned on the binoculars in his helmet.
He could see some of the drivers out of their trucks nonchalantly leaning on the fenders. He scanned up to the head of the convoy and saw Maria’s fastbug tilted at an odd angle. She was standing nearby with Captain Teller and what he thought were a few of the drivers. Crater looked again and saw that they weren’t drivers at all.
Petro figured it out at the same time. “Umlaps! Look there, Crater,” he said. “See how filthy and patched their old-fashioned pressure suits are? Only Umlaps would have those.”
“Let’s see if we can help,” Crater said, then drove down the hill and past the trucks until he reached Teller, Maria, and the Umlaps. Captain Teller was talking and waving his arms.
The Umlaps were just standing there, their faces inscrutable.
The convoy frequency was quiet so Crater put his helmet comm set on automatic and, after a few seconds, found the frequency Teller was using to talk, if yelling was considered talking.
Teller snapped a glance at Crater as he came walking up.
“About time you got here,” he said.
“Sorry, Captain,” Crater said, then looked at Maria. “Are you all right?”
“Why do you care? I’m just a bossy girl.”
Crater didn’t know how to reply to that but at least it told him she was okay. “What happened to my fastbug?” he asked.
“These idiots stepped out in front of me and I swerved and hit a boulder.”
“You broke its axle.”
Maria rolled her eyes. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
The Umlaps had been watching and listening to Crater and Maria with some interest, but the one who seemed to be in charge suddenly got restless and spoke up. “Give us your money,” he said, in the Umlap tongue which was a combination of Russian, Chinese, and tribal Siberian.
“He wants money,” Crater advised Teller.
“You can speak this gibberish?”
“A little.”
“Then tell them to get out of our way.”
Crater did as he was told and the Umlap leader smiled. “Is your commander an idiot? Pay us or we are not going to let your trucks pass.”
“What’s he smiling about?” Teller asked.
“They smile when they’re unhappy,” Crater answered.
“They’re kind of backward about showing their emotions.”
“Do they cry when they hear a joke?”
“I don’t know,” Crater confessed. “Do you want to tell them one?”
“Just tell them to move,” Teller snapped.
“I already did.”
“Then tell them again!”
Crater passed along Teller’s request again, which caused the Umlap leader to be so unhappy that he grinned, showing off big yellow teeth. “My name is Hit Your Face. I am astonished you speak Umlap. Tell this stupid man if he does not give us money, we will stick you all with our spears.”
“My name is Crater Trueblood,” Crater said. “It is good to meet you.”
“What is good about it? Did you not hear me? I want money. Give it to me or . . .” He pointed at Maria. “She will be the first to die.”
“Why her?”
“I saw the way you looked at her.”
“What’s he saying?” Teller demanded. “Why did he point at Maria?”
When Crater didn’t answer immediately, Teller pulled his pistol. “If these fellows don’t move in about three seconds, I’m going to start shooting. Tell ugly there he’s first.”
Without appearing to hurry, lest he cause spears to be hurled and bullets to be shot, Crater walked over to stand in front of Maria. “Get out of my way,” she said. She took a step to the side but, glancing over his shoulder, he moved to stay between her and the spears. “Crater, what are you doing?”
Ignoring Maria’s complaints and trying to calm things down, Crater asked the Umlaps, “Why are you reduced to common thievery? Why don’t you sell your heel-3?”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
Hit Your Face smiled. “Our scraper doesn’t work.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“If we knew that, we would fix it.”
“Do you have a machine shop?”
“A very nice one. The Russians built it for us.”
Crater thought he saw an opening to end the confrontation. “How about I have a look at your scraper? I know a little about machinery. Maybe I can fix it.”
Hit Your Face pondered Crater’s offer, then said, “I will discuss it.”
When Crater explained what he’d told Hit Your Face, Teller replied, “Let’s just shoot them and be done with it.”
“You don’t have to protect me,” Maria griped. “I can take care of myself.”
“But the Colonel asked me—” he said, but caught himself in time. She didn’t need to know her grandfather thought she needed him to watch out for her. If she did, she’d probably make the job twice as hard, just for spite.
Hit Your Face came sauntering back. “We agree,” he said.
Crater translated and said to Teller, “I think I can get down there, fix their scraper, and get back on the dustway in eight hours or less. I should be able to catch you well before you get to Aristillus.”
Teller internally debated Crater’s idea and supposed it wasn’t an entirely bad one. “All right,” he said, then nodded toward the damaged fastbug. “Can you repair it too?”
“No problem. I’ll fix it, then catch up.”
“The railgun’s in the fastbug s towage locker,” Teller said.
“You might need it. Anyway, catch up with us as fast as you can.”
Crater turned to Hit Your Face. “I will need the damaged fastbug if you’ll be so kind as to carry it for me.”
Hit Your Face gestured to his group. The Umlaps lowered their spears and picked the fastbug up on their shoulders and marched off, Crater following. He passed Maria, who said nothing, but before he got out of range, she called him on a private channel. “Crater? I don’t think this is a good idea. We need two scouts and now we have one. What sense does that make?”
“I’ll catch up with the convoy in no time,” Crater replied.
“Don’t worry.”
“Is that another way of saying don’t be bossy?”
Crater co
uldn’t help himself. “Yes, it is.”
The immediate click in his comm unit told him Maria had signed off.
:::
SEVENTEEN
Crater had never seen a more dismal sight than Baikal, the Umlap settlement. Strewn everywhere were ruined mining equipment and piles of garbage that glittered with the shards of shredded plaston bottles. Beyond the airlock entrance was a low hill and beyond it was disturbed regolith, indicating a scrape. There sat an idle loader and a scraper, a conveyor belt that was conveying nothing, and a solar tower with all its panels pointing in the wrong direction. Nothing about the scrape was encouraging, and Crater fretted he only had a few hours to fix it, else the convoy would get too far ahead of him.
The Umlaps set the fastbug down and wound their way through the litter to the airlock hatch, which had been left open—a safety violation that would not have been tolerated in Moontown. Crater climbed inside behind the Umlaps. Hit Your Face closed the hatch and pushed a button on a panel, causing air to be pumped in to whatever the Baikal standard was. When Hit Your Face opened his suit and didn’t keel over, Crater unzipped his, climbed out of it, then hung it beside the others on a line of hooks. His nose involuntarily wrinkled at the reek of grease, sweat, and dust. When Crater saw Hit Your Face take a filter mask off a peg, he grabbed one too.
An Umlap, apparently the airlock dustie, appeared and began to hook the backpacks to a compressed-air station. Crater asked him to take care of his ECP suit too. In response, the technician made a dismissive gesture. Hit Your Face walked over and struck the Umlap dustie in the face with his helmet, staggering him. Blood oozed from the wound on his skull. He gave Crater a dirty look, then took his gear and slunk off.