Journey Into Space

by Charles Chilton

  We touched down. Jet switched off the engine and the rotor blades slowed to a standstill. He slid back the cabin door and we climbed down to the sun-baked ground. A jeep was already on its way out to meet us, hurtling along the concrete road in a cloud of dust. Within a few minutes my baggage had been unloaded from the aircraft and we were speeding across the airstrip towards the crew’s living quarters.

  Chapter 3 – LUNA

  “Good morning, gentlemen. The time is 0600 hours. The weather is warm. Temperature at the airstrip is 82°. We can expect it to reach at least 95° by noon.”

  I awoke with a start, half expecting to see somebody standing in the corner of my room. Instead I saw a panel, some four feet square, placed diagonally across it. At the top was a television screen and underneath three gauze-covered circles marking the positions of intercommunication loudspeakers. Below them were four coloured-glass buttons which, as I was to discover later, were indicator lights. Slowly I realised where I was. I glanced around at the unfamiliar surroundings now flooded with the sunlight which came streaming through the window. The voice was coming from the intercom panel.

  “Breakfast will be at 0700 hours as usual. That is all--and thank you.”

  There was a click and then silence. The ‘phone at my bedside rang. It was Jet.

  “Morning, Doc,” he said, “have a good night?”

  “Very good, thanks, until the talking alarm clock came on.”

  “Sorry about that. I should have warned you. It happens every day, I’m afraid. See you at breakfast, huh?”

  I need not fill in every detail of my first week in Luna City. Jet had invited me out there to be director of space medicine and, far more important to me, a member of the ship’s crew. But, before being finally accepted, I had to undergo vigorous and, at times, highly unpleasant medical tests. Most of them I had carried out myself on other guinea-pigs in the course of my work at Poker Flats.

  You cannot send a man up into space, even for a short period, unless he is fighting fit, and the only way to discover whether he can stand up to space flight conditions is to put him through, as far as possible, simulated conditions down on Earth. It is no exaggeration to say that the series of tests designed for this purpose might well serve to discourage all but the most ardent would-be space traveller. General fitness having been ascertained, the ‘patient’ is subjected to centrifuge and pressure-chamber tests, both separately and together. He is then called upon to perform certain acts like pressing buttons, repeating memorised passages of prose and arithmetical formulae, and working out fairly complicated problems while under simulated space conditions. If his reactions are good and he does not suffer either physically or mentally from the gruelling tests, he is considered OK.

  My tests were spread over the week. I joined the crew at the end of it and our long, concentrated training and preparation for the lunar trip began. And while we were undergoing training, the construction of the rocket went ahead. We and the ship were expected to be ready for each other at approximately the same time.

  Rocketship Luna was designed to carry a crew of four; Stephen Mitchell, Jet Morgan, Lemmy Barnet and myself. Lemmy I already knew from the days he had spent with Jet and me when space travel was no more to us than an absorbing hobby and a distant dream. (There have been many occasions over the last few weeks when I am sure Lemmy, at least, wished it had remained so.) Mitch I met at dinner during my first night in Luna City.

  I think I would have recognised him as an Australian anywhere. He was tall and slim and looked older than his thirty-six years. He had that casual, nonchalant, patient air, so typical of many Australians, particularly those who have spent most of their lives away from the cities.

  Mitch was born in the outback, his father being a cattle rancher and a very successful and prosperous one, too. Steve Mitchell senior had served as flight mechanic in the second world war and flying was an obsession with him. Small aircraft, including helicopters, were as common on his cattle station, said to be the largest in Queensland, as jeeps were on others.

  Young Mitchell had inherited his father’s love of everything to do with aircraft and aircraft engines. From the ranch he went to an engineering college in Sydney where he took his degree and afterwards joined the research department of a jet aircraft-manufacturer.

  He did not remain with them long for he had developed a keen interest in atomic power and was soon offered a remunerative post with the Royal Australian Navy for whom he helped perfect the first atomic motor for use in warships. Three years later a smaller type for submarines was given its trials with most encouraging results. And then came a big change in Mitch’s life. His father died. Mitch put the cattle station into the hands of a manager and took a long vacation to take stock of the future.

  He decided he had had enough of ships and felt a strong desire to work in aeronautics again or, better still, astronautics. Astronautics was the new science. The aircraft company for whom he had first worked built many of the research rockets fired at the proving ground at Woomera. Mitch had modified the motors of a number of the liquid-fuel rockets then in use, rendering them more economical in fuel consumption and, in consequence, more efficient in performance.

  But liquid-fuel motors had about reached their limit and further development along that line was pointless. It was then that the idea of designing a light atomic motor occurred to him.

  The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed. He resigned his post with the Navy and set to. His drawing-office was the converted living-room of his father’s ranch house. There he spent long hours of the day and night bent over his board. When he grew tired or felt in need of a mental refresher, he saddled up a horse and rode out on cattle round-ups with the stockmen, living in the open with them for days at a time. At last, some eighteen months later, his plans were complete. He had, he was convinced, found the answer to space travel. Now all he had to do was find an organisation willing--and rich enough--to build the ship to prove it.

  But it was soon obvious that no single organisation, private or official, could possibly stand the cost. His only hope lay in persuading a large number of organisations, both governmental and commercial, to share it. He travelled to every corner of the British Commonwealth with a trunkful of plans and a strong line of talk, and succeeded in founding the greatest Commonwealth co-operative effort ever undertaken in peacetime.

  Every major aircraft and rocket company contributed towards the cost which, with the building of the rocket and the launching ground, and the personnel to man it, was phenomenal. The Australian Government, beside providing a grant in hard cash, also supplied the site for the launching ground.

  The result was Luna City, where every race and tongue of the British Commonwealth of Nations was to be seen and heard. And what a friendly, happy, enthusiastic crowd they were; as an American, I felt it was a great privilege to be a principal member of this team.

  Sitting at the same dinner table as Mitch, and hearing him speak in his broad Australian accent; I found it hard to convince myself that he was the man primarily responsible for it all. His manner was a bit rough, his jokes apt to be somewhat coarse and his conversation blunt and straight to the point. He expected others to speak their minds, too.

  “As soon as we’ve had dinner,” he said, when we had about finished anyway, “we’ll hop in a truck and show you round the place.”

  “Perhaps Doc would like to go to bed,” suggested Jet. “He’s just flown halfway across the world. He must be tired.”

  “He doesn’t look tired.” Mitch looked at me with cold, unblinking eyes. “Are you tired, Doc?”

  “No--not really. I’d like to take a look at a few things before it gets dark.”

  “Good. Not that there’s all that much to see yet. Half the buildings are unfinished and outside the City there’s nothing but the Never-Never. You never saw such a Godforsaken place.”

  As the weeks went by, the building of Luna and Luna City progressed steadily. The city was finished
first--by an army of builders working day and night. Control room, deep shelters, radio transmitter, radar stations, film unit, deep fuel storage tanks and a host of other buildings were erected and the technical equipment installed.

  During these early months, we paid little attention to the activity going on all around us; we were too preoccupied with our own affairs.

  Our training began with intensified lectures on astronomy and astronavigation. We spent hours in the observatory stargazing and studying lunar geography. Hundreds of photographs of Sinus Iridum, where it was intended we should land, were studied until we knew the area by heart. In addition, there was a vast relief map of the Bay for our use, showing every known crater, crevice, depression and mountain.

  Take-off and landing procedures were gone over time and again. And during the toughening up processes we spent hours in the centrifuge and the pressure chambers. We also received training in mountain climbing and laboured up and down the precipitous walls of the Horseshoes, both with and without space suits, until Lemmy remarked that anyone might think we were a mountaineering expedition.

  Every man’s individual training was, of course, primarily concerned with his own specialised work as a crew member, but he also had to learn a great deal about every other man’s job so that, in the event of one of us falling sick or being otherwise incapacitated, another would be able to step into his place.

  Jet was captain, pilot, chief navigator and second engineer. Mitch was chief engineer, second pilot and navigator. Lemmy was radio, radar and televiewer operator and chief electronic engineer. I was ship’s doctor and responsible for the efficient working of oxygen supply, air-conditioning, and food. I was also principal photographer. If the necessity arose, I could take over most of Lemmy’s duties and he mine.

  In addition to being trained to man the ship, we received instructions as to how to carry out some elementary scientific research and exploration during the fourteen days we would spend on the Earth’s satellite. Our work would consist, principally, of photographing the heavens, particularly the sun and planets, selecting small specimens of moon rock and soil to bring back to Earth, measuring the radioactivity of parts of the Moon’s surface within the landing area and studying the formation and composition of craters within easy reach.

  The building of the rocket was a slow process but, gradually, enclosed in the splints of the erection gantry, it began to climb towards the sky. The first stage, the booster, was finished within three months and by the end of six months the second stage was well on the way to completion, the atomic motor being installed and the crew’s cabin wired up.

  I watched its progress every night. The crew’s quarters were set apart from the rest and were cool, soundproof and comfortable. The four rooms, one for each crew member, were housed in a building that contained the ablutions, rest room, games room and dining room. Each bedroom was approximately twenty feet square and contained a bed, a bedside table, writing desk, bookcase and wardrobe and the intercommunication panel I have already described.

  The television screen served three purposes. With the correct combination of buttons situated in the control board just above the bed, it was possible to select either a television programme relayed from Adelaide, the film being shown in the camp cinema or a view of the rocket, long shot or close-up, under construction. Always, before I finally put out the light and went to sleep, I looked in on the rocket for a few’ minutes to see how she was coming on. I shall not easily forget the sight of her, standing there, brilliantly illuminated by the arc lamps and surrounded by dozens of supply trucks. Up and down the gantry shot elevators carrying construction engineers and prefabricated parts of the ship. Directly behind her were the tallest peaks of the Horseshoe range with the observatory nestled comfortably on the top. The observatory was the last object to reflect the rays of the setting sun at night and the first in the morning when, with the sun behind it, it stood out against the jagged skyline in silhouette.

  The ship was almost complete now, complete enough for us to occupy the cabin and go through the take-off routine. For nearly a week we lived in her, going through every procedure of take-off, flight and landing on the Moon. We lived under identical conditions of space flight, except that we were earthbound. Our air supply was oxygenized, our food taken cold. When we stepped out of the ship, it was through an airlock and in space suits. We unloaded the astronomical gear, cameras and geiger counter and solemnly set about exploring the Horseshoe plain as though we were already on the Moon. We chipped out samples of rock, collected and boxed handfuls of dust and radioed our findings back to base--less than ten miles away.

  At last we were ready. On the day before take-off we worked up to the last moment, had dinner at seven and retired to bed. We had been told to relax--and sleep.

  It was easier said than done. It had been a hot day--an extremely hot day. Official reading down at the air strip had reached 112° F in the shade. Over at the launching platform the ground crew, most of them naked from the waist up except for that peculiarly national piece of Australian headwear, the bush hat, had laboured in the merciless sun from dawn to dusk, working against time to have everything checked, re-checked and ready for the fuel crews to take over. As the sun went down, the last of them put on his shirt, climbed aboard the passenger truck and went hurtling across the desert towards the living quarters, a cool shower and a lusty supper in the ground staff canteen.

  As the platform crew trucks arrived, those of the fuel crews left, the men aboard them donning their protective clothing as they went. An hour later the pump lines had been connected and the transfer of hundreds of tons of highly explosive liquid fuel and oxydiser from their underground storage to the ship’s tanks had begun.

  I watched the fuellers at work on the screen. I had drawn the curtains of the window and rays of light from an eight-day old Moon entered the opening at an angle, illuminating the notebooks and text books piled up on the table.

  Outside, as darkness fell, I knew that the cries of the dingos would mingle with the low, powerful hum of the pump motors. I imagined the orders barked at the men as they climbed the gantries, disconnected and reconnected the lines and kept a watchful eye on the gauges. Every man, completely enclosed in his suit, received his orders via his personal radio and made his reports back to Control in the same way. Fuelling was a tough, skilful and dangerous job and it was carried out to a precise routine. They would be at it for hours yet, almost until take-off time.

  I lay on my back, trying to compose my thoughts sufficiently to allow me to sleep. I had partially succeeded when I was jerked awake by the sound of low voices. Over in the corner, two of the indicator lights glowed on the intercommunication panel.

  By means of the intercom we, the four members of the crew, could talk to one another. If we wished, we could all converse at the same time. We could, of course, eavesdrop as well. Normally we never did. If any one of us was expected to take part in a discussion, his own coloured indicator light would show. My own light was not flicking but Jet’s amber and Lemmy’s green were.

  I realised I must have forgotten to switch off my receiver after we had all wished each other good night. I started to get out of bed. But then I stopped myself. It might have been my own thoughts that were being spoken out loud by the two familiar but disembodied voices.

  “Were you asleep, Jet?”

  “Does it sound like it?”

  “I can’t sleep either.” Lemmy sounded lonely and just a little anxious. “I can’t believe it, Jet. It’s all a dream, isn’t it? Tomorrow we’ll wake up and find ourselves back on the superstrato run, won’t we?”

  “I hope not, Lemmy. I’d hate to have gone through the last nine months’ training for nothing.”

  “That’s what worries me. That it might be for nothing.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Suppose something goes wrong.”

  “Why should it?”

  “Something could have been forgotten. Some miscalculation m
ade.”

  “The chances are remote. Everything has been checked and rechecked, both by human and electronic brains.”

  “But it could happen. There’s always a chance.”

  “About as much chance as you have of winning the football pools.”

  “I won fifty pounds not two months back.”

  “I mean the big prize--thousands of pounds.”

  I’ve got a feeling, Jet. Nobody’s ever made this run before. Anything could happen.”

  “Not to the ship.”

  “To us then.”

  “You’ve got the jitters, Lemmy. We all have. It’s only natural. Think back to the first superstrato crossing we made. We felt much the same way then, remember?”

  “This is different, Jet. You’d think that at least they’d have sent an unmanned rocket first.”

  “You couldn’t bring it back, so what would be the point?”

  “Well, at least they’d know it could get there, that would be something.”

  “Luna will get there--and back, too. Little more than three weeks from now, Lemmy, you’ll be laughing at yourself for talking this way.”

  “I’m not laughing now.”

  “Try to sleep. Tomorrow you’ll be OK.”

  “I told you--I can’t sleep. Have you looked at the ship lately?”

  “I switched on the screen just before I got into bed. Why?” “They’re still pumping the juice into her.”

  “They’ll be doing that for an hour or two yet. You’d do better to switch your viewer off and try to forget about it.”

  “I’ve tried, but it’s all I think of.”

  “Then take your pill. In ten minutes you’ll be sound asleep.”

  “Why don’t you take yours?”

  “That’s just what I intend to do--now.”

  “Oh. You sure you wouldn’t like to talk a few minutes longer?”

  “No thanks, Lemmy.”

  “All right. Good night.”

  “Good night.”