Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. “Well,” he said wryly, “it doesn’t smell as bad now.”

  “Oops,” said Major Winship. “Just a second. They’re coming in.” He switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.

  “Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?”

  “This is Major Winship.”

  “Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?”

  “Little leak. You?”

  “Came through without damage.” General Finogenov paused a moment. When no comment was forthcoming, he continued: “Perhaps we built a bit more strongly, Major.”

  “You did this deliberately,” Major Winship said testily.

  “No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me. Is there anything at all we can do?”

  “Just leave us alone, thank you,” Major Winship said and cut off the communication.

  “What’d they say?” Capt. Wilkins asked.

  “Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this.”

  “That’s nice,” Lt. Chandler said.

  “I’ll be damned surprised,” Major Winship said, “if they got any seismic data out of that shot . . . Well, to hell with them, let’s get this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?”

  “Larry, where’s the inventory?”

  “Les has got it.”

  Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.

  “Larry,” Major Winship said, “why don’t you get Earth?”

  “Okay.”

  Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.

  “Got the inventory sheet, Les?”

  “Right here.”

  Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. “We can’t hear anything without any air.”

  Major Winship looked at the microphone. “Well, I’ll just report and—” He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right, isn’t it.” Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. “Some days you don’t mine at all,” he said.

  “Les, have you found it?”

  “It’s around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here.”

  “Well, find it.”

  Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. “I saw it—”

  “Skip, help look.”

  Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. “We haven’t got all day.”

  A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. “Here it is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It’s the hew stuff.”

  Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.

  “Marker showed it over here,” Major Winship said, inching over to the wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.

  “How does this stuff work?” Capt. Lawler asked.

  They huddled over the instruction sheet.

  “Let’s see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before service.”

  Major Winship said dryly, “Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact with air.”

  Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, “Now that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn’t it?”

  “How do they possibly think—?”

  “Gentlemen! It doesn’t make any difference,” Lt. Chandler said. “Some air must already have leaked into this one. It’s hard as a rock. A gorilla couldn’t extrude it.”

  “How’re the other ones?” asked Major Winship.

  Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. “Oh, they’re all hard, too.”

  “Who was supposed to check?” demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.

  “The only way you can check is to extrude it,” Lt. Chandler said, “and if it does extrude, you’ve ruined it.”

  “That’s that,” Major Winship said. “There’s nothing for it but to yell help.”

  II

  CAPT. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.

  Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt. Wilkins stayed for company.

  “I want a cigarette in the worst way,” Capt. Wilkins said.

  “So do I, Larry. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. Unless something else goes wrong.”

  “As long as they’ll loan us the calking compound,” Capt. Wilkins said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Major Winship said.

  “Let’s eat.”

  “You got any concentrate? I’m empty.”

  “I’ll load you,” Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.

  It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins cursed twice during the operation. “I’d hate to live in this thing for any period.”

  “I think these suits are one thing we’ve got over the 34

  Russians,” Major Winship said. “I don’t see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces of junk around.”

  They ate.

  “Really horrible stuff.”

  “Nutritious.”

  After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, “Now I’d like a cup of hot tea. I’m cooled off.”

  Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. “What brought this on?”

  “I was just thinking . . . They really got it made, Larry. They’ve got better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there’s only seven of them right now. That’s living.”

  “They’ve been here six years longer, after all.”

  “Finogenov had a clay samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real, by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And a wooden desk. A wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—”

  “They’ve got the powerplants for it.”

  “Do you think he did that deliberately?” Major Winship asked. “I think he’s trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin’s built to take it, I’ll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don’t suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn’t, they sure got the jump on us again, didn’t they? I told you what he told me?”

  “You told me,” Capt. Wilkins said.

  AFTER a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, “To hell with the Russian engineer.”

  “If you’ve got all that power . . .”

  “That’s the thing. That’s the thing that gripes me, know what I mean? It’s just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That’s showing off. Like a little kid.”

  “Maybe they don’t make aluminum desks.”

  “They’ve—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is aluminum. You know they’re just showing off.”

  “Let me wire you up,” Capt. Wilkins said. “We ought to report.”

  “That’s going to take awhile.”

  “It’s something to do while we wait.”

  “I guess we ought to.” Major Winship came down from the bunk and sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship’s back. Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship wa
s coupled into the network. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” Major Winship gestured.

  They roused Earth.

  “This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the American moonbase.”

  At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkin’s helmet.

  “This is the Cape. Come in, Capt. Winship.”

  “Just a moment.”

  “Is everything all right?” Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.

  “A-Okay,” he said. “Just a moment.”

  “What’s wrong?” came the worried question. In the background, he heard someone say, “I think there’s something wrong.”

  Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a savage grimace.

  Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously large to the other.

  Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in involuntary realism.

  This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.

  Capt. Wilkins’s lips were desperately forming the word “Leak?”

  Air, Major Winship said silently.

  Leak?

  Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.

  COMPREHENSION dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away. Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.

  Oh.

  Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He, reached across and plugged the speaker in again.

  “. . . Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!”

  “We’re here,” Major Winship said.

  “All right? Are you all right?”

  “We’re all right. A-Okay.” Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his potential audience, took a deep breath. “Earlier this morning, the Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of vigorous American protests.”

  Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around. The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.

  “These protests have proved well founded,” Major Winship continued. “Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage.”

  Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.

  “However,” he continued, “we did experience a minor leak in the dome, which is presently being repaired.”

  “The Soviet Union,” came the reply, “has reported the disturbance and has tendered their official apology. You want it?”

  “It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the necessary replacement.”

  The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave the conversation a tone of deliberation.

  A new voice came on. “We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will be able to deliver replacements in about ten days.”

  “I will forward a coded report on the occurrence,” Major Winship said.

  “Let us hear from you again in . . . about three hours. Is the leak repaired?”

  “The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out.”

  He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.

  Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the transmitter.

  “Wow!” said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. “For a moment there, I thought . . .”

  “What?” Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.

  “I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle. I never felt so . . . idiotic is not quite strong enough . . . there for a minute in my whole life. I didn’t know how much emergency air was left, and I thought, my God, I’ll never live this down. All the hams in the world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the nickname being entered in my files: aka, The Airless Idiot. I tell you, that was rough.”

  III

  CAPT. LAWLER and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It was a fifty-five gallon drum.

  The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. “What is that?” asked Major Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.

  “That,” said Capt. Lawler, “is the calking compound.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Capt. Wilkins.

  “I am not kidding.”

  Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.

  “Why didn’t you just borrow a cupful?” Major Winship said sarcastically.

  “It’s this way,” Lt. Chandler said. “They didn’t have anything but 55-gallon drums of it.”

  “Oh, my,” said Capt. Wilkins. “I suppose it’s a steel drum. Those things must weigh . . .”

  “Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong,” Capt. Lawler said. “He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad.”

  “He’s too damned suspicious,” Major Winship said. “You know and I know why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I’ll bet!”

  “About this drum,” Capt. Wilkins said.

  “Well, like I said, it’s this way,” Lt. Chandler resumed. “I told him we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But! this stuff you have to mix up. He only had these drums. There’s two parts to it, and you have to combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little scale—”

  “A little scale?” asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.

  “That’s what I told him. We don’t have any little scale.”

  “Yeah,” said Captain Lawler, “and he looked at us with that mute, surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little scales.”

  “Well, anyway,” Lt. Chandler continued, “he told us just to mix up the whole fifty-five gallon drum. There’s a little bucket of stuff that goes in, and it’s measured just right. We can throw away what we don’t need.”

  “Somehow, that sounds like him,” Major Winship said.

  “He had five or six of them.”

  “Jesus!” said Capt. Wilkins. “That must be three thousand pounds of calking compound. Those people are insane.”

  “The question is,” Capt. Lawler said, “ ‘How are we going to mix it?’ It’s supposed to be mixed thoroughly.”

  They thought over the problem for a while.

  “That will be a man-sized job,” Major Winship said.

  “Let’s see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad,” said Capt. Wilkins. “If I took the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and . . . let’s see . . . if we could . . .”

>   IT took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.

  Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.

  “Now,” Major Winship said, “we can either bring the drum inside or take the mixer out there.”

  “We’re going to have to bring the drum in,” Capt. Wilkins said.

  “Well,” said Capt. Lawler, “that will make it nice and cozy.”

  It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was interposing itself.

  Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. “Damn these suits,” he said.

  “You’ve got it stuck between the bunk post.”

  “I know that.”

  “I don’t think this is the way to do it,” Major Winship said. “Let’s back the drum out.”

  Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It rested uneasily on the uneven surface.

  “Now, let’s go,” said Major Winship.

  Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring. “It’s not the weight, it’s the mass,” said Capt. Wilkins brightly.

  “The hell it isn’t the weight,” said Lt. Chandler. “That’s heavy.”

  “With my reefer out,” said Major Winship, “I’m the one it’s rough on.” He shook perspiration out of his eyes. “They should figure a way to get a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I’ll bet you’ve forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes.”

  “It’s the salt.”

  “Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets,” Major Winship said. “I’ve never sweat so much since basic.”

  “Want to bet Finogenov hasn’t got a bushel of them?”