Journey Into Space

by Charles Chilton

  Now switch on the main televiewer and we’ll see what it looks like outside.”

  Lemmy turned the televiewer on and the large screen over the control table lit up. Outside, in glaring sunlight, clear in every detail, was the Moon’s surface.

  The Bay of Rainbows, in which we had landed, is situated in the north-east quadrant of the Moon-globe. It lies to the north of Mare Imbrium (The Sea of Rains) and can, on good ‘seeing’ nights on Earth, be seen with the naked eye. Through binoculars it stands out clearly, the darker surface of the ‘sea’ contrasting strongly with the lighter-coloured mountains that border its northern shore. The Bay is guarded by two promontories, Laplace and Heraclides, the shore of the Bay running from one to the other in an almost perfect semi-circle.

  Laplace and Heraclides form part of the Jura Mountains which rise out of the sea and reach their highest altitude, 29,000 ft, halfway round the Bay. Laplace is steep and reaches 9000 ft while Heraclides reaches only 4500--for a Moon mountain, not particularly high.

  We landed in the sunlight but, only a few hours before, the landing area had been in darkness for the Moon’s terminator was moving westwards away from us--to return again from the east in fourteen Earth days’ time. The purpose of landing so early in the lunar morning was to give us the maximum possible time in sunlight before the long darkness again overtook the Bay and compelled us to return home.

  Towering above the horizon in the picture on the televiewer screen was Cape Laplace, its uppermost peaks bathed in the sunlight, throwing a great, long, pointed, razor-edged shadow across the level plain of the Bay. Perhaps ‘level’ is hardly the right word. I don’t believe there is one true level spot anywhere on the Moon. The ‘sea’ that forms the Bay is solidified lava, with a surface like pie-crust--low, easy swells, narrow, shallow cracks and numerous small craters which, in the bright sun, stood out in sharp relief.

  The Jura Mountains, which surrounded us on three sides, reached incredible heights; 20,000 ft at their maximum. It was as though we had landed at the foot of the Himalayas. But the most incredible thing was the sky. It was black and the stars shone out of it by the million; stars invisible on Earth being as easily discernible as those of first magnitude, even over that part of the bay on which the sun was shining. It was neither night nor day. It was one and the same-- together. The sunlit cliffs, seen against the black sky, seemed to be floodlit from below rather than illuminated from above.

  We took a look at the sun as it rose above the peaks of Cape Laplace. It was a bluish white and, as it came over the horizon, the long streaks of its prominences were as clear as during a total eclipse down on Earth.

  Everywhere was barrenness, loneliness, utter desolation. Even inside the ship we could sense the deep, awful silence without. We pointed out objects to each other in hushed voices. Then, by means of the televiewer, we made a tour of the Bay, from dark Heraclides to sunlit Laplace. Our trip completed, we shut off the televiewer, opened up the radio and called Control to tell them that our journey was over and we had made a safe landing.

  Everybody knows what happened then. Every radio station in the world relayed our conversation with Control. For half an hour we answered questions from the ABC commentator in Luna City down, or should I say ‘up’, there in Australia. Every word we said was reported in every principal newspaper on Earth. We described the bleakness, the loneliness, the almost monochromatic world that was the Moon. We spoke to Sydney and New York and answered, as best we could, the questions relayed to us. Then, still hooked up to Luna City and the world in general, the first attempt to leave the ship and descend to the Moon’s surface was made.

  It was Lemmy’s turn to stay inside. In great anticipation, Jet, Mitch and I donned our space suits, went through the airlock and, after the ladder had been extended, made our way down its rungs towards the Moon’s surface with Mitch leading. In spite of Mitch’s offer that I could be the first to step on to the Moon, when it came to it I conceded the honour to him. For Mitch was like a child, he was so excited. He went down well ahead of Jet and we could hear his heavy breathing over our personal radios. “I feel so light and the going’s so easy, I want to let go and float down.”

  “No, Mitch,” said Jet anxiously. “Don’t run any risks, take it easy.”

  We waited for him to reach the surface.

  “Well, I made it.”

  “How does it feel?” asked Jet.

  “Fine, except that I’m ankle deep in dust. Be careful how you walk, the ground’s full of cracks and mounds.” I looked down and saw Mitch walking rapidly round in circles. In a minute or two Jet had joined him and they both disappeared out of sight round the ship.

  “We can see the Earth now, Doc,” came Mitch’s voice. “Come on. Come and look.”

  “Give me a chance to get down first,” I told him. “You two are much too fast for me.”

  As I left the ladder I heard Jet say: “Hullo, Earth. I can see you now. A great ball in the sky. About twelve times the size that the Moon looks to you.”

  “Can you pick out the seas and continents?” came the voice of Earth. We could, of course.

  Jet was still describing the scene when I caught up with him and Mitch. It was then that we spoke to London. London told us that it was a clear, cloudless evening (we could see for ourselves that all Europe was enjoying unusually clear weather) and that crowds of people were standing in the streets looking up at the Moon and trying to make out the Bay of Rainbows with field glasses and small portable telescopes.

  The excitement and exchanges lasted nearly three hours altogether. But at last the interviews, the fun and the laughter were over and we were finally allowed to return to the ship and set about organising the serious work.

  Anyone who thinks a fourteen-day sojourn on the Moon would be either pleasurable, thrilling or adventurous had better reconsider his views. Nothing could be duller, unless you happen to be an enthusiastic mineralogist or something of that kind. None of us were. We had our work to do; we had been trained for it, of course, but collecting specimens of moon rock and soil, measuring radioactivity and carrying out surveys for the selenographers down on Earth was, although interesting enough at first, soon a matter of dull routine.

  The most enjoyable tasks were connected with the astronomical work. The sun, the stars and the planets were all photographed in their turn, and what wonderful sights they were, the moons of Jupiter and the sun’s corona being visible to the unaided eye.

  The most unpleasant thing we had to contend with was the heat. We had landed on a part of the Moon where, it was expected, temperature would be akin to that of the tropics down on Earth. In fact, it was slightly higher than that, somewhere in the region of 125 ° F. If you can imagine yourself in a lifeless desert, with no night, only day, doing hard, physical work clad in a diving suit, you’ll have a good idea of the kind of conditions in which we found ourselves.

  Our suits carried their own cooling systems but, unfortunately, these were not as effective as we had hoped. When we first left the ship we were comfortable enough, the temperature inside our suits being between 65 and 70 degrees. But we had only to walk in the sun for a few minutes to find the temperature rising rapidly. Within an hour it was unbearable and we either had to return to the ship or seek the shade. Then within a few minutes, we would be cool enough to venture out into the light again. But as the sun rose higher in the lunar heavens and noon approached, shady nooks became fewer and our stays outside the ship shorter.

  Six days after landing, all shade had virtually disappeared. This meant no one could spend more than an hour outside, including the time it took him to reach the scene of operations and get back again. This reduced each man’s actual working time to a mere few minutes. But we did our best and, I must admit, achieved quite a lot under the circumstances. Twice a day we gathered inside the ship for meals and eight hours out of every twenty-four were spent resting. What with sorting and classifying the specimens, reporting our findings to base and reorganising the explo
ration schedule according to Control’s instructions, we had very little time to ourselves and no time at all, you might say, to enjoy the scenery.

  The novelty of being in the centre of a moonscape where harsh, sharp-edged, deep shadows stood out in vivid contrast to the illuminated areas, where, in spite of the sunlight, the sky was always black and the stars always visible, soon wore off. We soon came to regard the Moon as an unfriendly, indeed extremely hostile planet where any kind of life was unwelcome. We were all looking forward to our return. The first thing we did each day when, armed with charts, theodolite, telescopic camera or other equipment, we left the ship to carry out our work under the fierce sun, was to glance at the waning Earth hanging in the sky. She looked so cool and friendly. We were all longing to go home.

  In spite of the dullness, the exploratory routine was not without incident. First day out, Lemmy discovered that the low gravitational pull allowed him to clear greater heights than an Olympic champion. He startled us all by easily clearing a rock more than twenty feet high. The sensation pleased him so much he would have tried an ever higher one had not Jet commanded him to stop. The risk of accident was too great for that kind of game.

  The second incident was far more serious. Mitch was out with Jet at the time. Luna had not landed on the exact spot intended. We were about 5000 yards out, in fact. Considering that our aim had been made from earth, nearly 242,000 miles away, that wasn’t too bad. But the miscalculation meant that our area of exploration had to be changed slightly, which was why we were continually receiving modifications to the schedule from Control.

  Less than a hundred yards from us was a crater which, because of its peculiar shape, we were ordered to examine. We were to photograph it and extract soil and rock specimens from the rim, but not to go down into it unless instructed. Jet and Mitch undertook the preliminary survey while I remained on watch in the ship and Lemmy rested.

  I watched them both approach the crater. It was quite a small one, being only about seventy feet in diameter and some twenty-five feet in depth. Its walls sloped gently downwards and inwards, giving the object the appearance of a washbowl. It even had a ‘plughole’ in its centre, about ten feet in diameter. So far as we could see, the hole was the opening to a well-like shaft, but how deep it went or what lay in its bottom we had no means of telling without closer examination.

  Its rim, although a little crumbly in places, was almost perfectly circular, with a few large boulders resting on it here and there. Bright streaks, almost white in colour and contrasting strongly with the grey of the lava-covered Bay, ran from the rim in every direction. The closer they were to the crater, the brighter they looked. As they got further from it, they grew fainter until, a quarter of a mile away, they faded out altogether.

  Jet and Mitch reached the rim and set about their work; Jet to collect samples of lava dust and Mitch to knock off chips of rock from one of the boulders. I kept them in view of the television camera and watched their every move. Jet had squatted down, rather awkwardly, in his space suit, while Mitch, holding on to the rock with one hand, began to work his way round to the inner side of the boulder. He was, I thought, taking unnecessary risks and I quietly brought his attention to the fact via the radio.

  “Don’t worry, Doc,” the voice came back. “There are plenty of foot and hand holds. Rock this side is streaked with red and yellow veins. Fellows up on Earth’d be glad to see a sample. Besides . . .” He got no further. The edge of the rim on which he was standing gave way beneath him. He toppled backwards, headlong into the crater.

  He fell in slow motion. There was a good six feet between Mitch and the sloping crater wall directly below him. Enclosed in his pressurised suit, he bounced slowly, like a balloon. Three feet further down he bounced again and started rolling towards the shaft.

  I was so scared for him I couldn’t speak. Lemmy, sitting cross-legged on his bunk, was unaware of the crisis. He was singing to himself, a parody of his own, ‘By the light of the silvery Earth’, but was having trouble getting his lines to rhyme. Jet didn’t move, or speak, but watched Mitch roll slowly towards the shaft as though fascinated by the spectacle.

  By some miracle, Mitch came to rest within three feet of the ‘plughole’, and there he lay; spreadeagled, motionless. I thought, at first, that he must be hurt, for he just lay still. Then it occurred to me that he might have punctured his suit and his air was escaping. If it was, there was little hope for him; if his suit collapsed his lungs would explode, long before we could get him out of the crater and into the safety of the ship’s airlock.

  “Keep calm, Mitch, and don’t move.” Jet was talking to him. “If you can hear me and can reply, do so, but don’t move.”

  A grunt was all the reply we got.

  Jet was standing up now and removing his safety line from its fastener on his suit. “If you can understand what I’m saying,” said Jet’s voice softly, “grunt again.” Mitch grunted. Jet told the Australian what he was about to do, and then threw the end of his safety line towards Mitch. It landed near his outstretched arm. He picked it up with difficulty in his gloved hand. Then, very gingerly, he rose to his feet and, with Jet pulling firmly, Mitch walked up the sloping walls of the crater.

  Ten minutes later he was back in the ship. After detailed examination, his suit and radio proved to be undamaged and Mitch himself had sustained no physical hurt. But it was a near thing and, although we didn’t realise it then, only the first of the shocks we were to receive in connection with the ‘washbowl’.

  The time drew near for returning to Earth. As the lunar day drew to a close and the heat subsided, we were able to stay outside for longer periods. Then, towards evening, we noticed that the terminator had already darkened Cape Laplace and would soon be making its way across the Bay. We were to leave before darkness descended on the landing area so, while Mitch and Jet made their final survey, Lemmy and I got the ship ready for take-off.

  Six hours later, all specimens had been safely stowed. Motor, radio, radar and the rest of the gear checked, we climbed on to our couches while Jet told Control we were about to leave, and would not be calling them again until we were coasting towards Earth. Then he, too, climbed into his bunk and we were all set.

  Lemmy switched on the televiewer camera in the nose, rotated it and gave us one last look at the Bay. The west side was in darkness but Cape Heraclides, still lit by the slowly setting sun, was bright enough, although deep shadows were already appearing to mark the places where the sun failed to reach the precipitous mountain walls.

  Then we saw the flag. We had hoisted it the day we arrived. The mast, a light-weight, telescopic affair, had been thrust into the soft, dusty soil of a small mound and held in place by superfine guy ropes that were invisible on the screen. The flag hung limp against the pole. Since we had hoisted it, it had never once moved. It was the last thing we saw before the televiewer was switched over to stern view for the take-off. Soon we would be gone and only the flag, the scorched ground, prints in the dust and the impression of Mitch where he had lain in the washbowl would remain to show we had set foot on the Moon. No wind or rain would ever rub them out. They would stay forever, just as we left them, until some great moonquake destroyed them or the satellite itself was no more.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Lemmy’s laugh. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said. “Maybe I’ll spend my holidays here again. But I’ll find better digs next time.”

  We all joined in his laughter and then, when Jet gave his first order for take-off, became serious again. “Doc, gyro.” We could feel it rotating. The ship was coming to life. She seemed almost as pleased about going home as we were.

  “Stand by for count-off.”

  “We’re going home,” whispered Lemmy.

  “But we’ll be back,” said Mitch.

  “Firing in 15 seconds.”

  Nobody spoke now. Take-off would not be so unpleasant as it had been from Earth but, our bodies having got used to the low gravitational pull
of the Moon, it would be bad enough.

  “Ten seconds.”

  I set myself to watch the televiewer screen. All the picture showed at the moment was a stabilising fin and part of the Moon’s surface below it. But I wanted to see the Bay below us, receding and getting smaller as we pulled away from it.

  “5, 4, 3, 2, 1--fire!”

  I tensed slightly, waiting for the roar of the motor to come pulsating through the aluminium frame of my bunk. But nothing happened. Only the slight feel of the big gyro.

  “Well, press the ignition switch,” said Mitch.

  “I did,” replied Jet. “Nothing happened.”

  “Press it again.”

  A pause.

  “Still nothing.”

  “Hey, Jet.” It was Lemmy now. “The radar--it’s cut.”

  The picture on the miniature screen above my head blurred, darkened, and went out.

  “Now the televiewer’s gone.”

  The pitch of the gyro began to drop.

  “Now the gyro.”

  The note reached its lowest pitch and faded out altogether. The lights went out. We were plunged into deep, impenetrable darkness.

  “Everything’s stopped,” came Jet’s voice from the bunk above. I could hear him pressing buttons. “There’s not a thing in the ship that works.”

  Chapter 7 - THE DEAD SHIP

  What’s happened to the emergency lights?” Mitch’s voice enquired out of the darkness. “They should come on automatically.”

  “Lemmy.”

  “Yes, Jet.”

  “The flashlight hanging behind you. Can you find it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then switch it on. Hurry. Switch it on.”

  We could hear Lemmy fumbling. Then the beam from the flashlight stabbed the gloom.

  “Thank goodness,” I said almost involuntarily. “To lie in the dark as well would be the last straw.”

  “What do you think has happened, Mitch?” asked Jet.

  “Main power supply must have failed. We can thank our lucky stars it didn’t happen while we were actually taking off.”