Comet's Burial
Page 2
draw food through alittle airlock in their armor's chestplate; knowing, in spite ofeffective insulation, that the heat of day exceeded the boiling point ofwater, and that the cold of the protracted night, when usually theycontinued their explorations with the aid of ato-lamps, hovered at thebrink of absolute zero--all those things had a harsh effect onnervous-systems.
They found two human corpses. One had been crushed in a long fall, hisspacesuit ripped open; he was a blackened mummy. The other was afreckled youth, coffined in his armor. Failure of its air-rejuvenatorunit had caused asphyxia. What you did for guys like this was collecttheir credentials for shipment home.
Copeland also found a Martian--inside its transparent version of aspacesuit, for the ancient Moon had been much the same as now. The beingwas dead, of course. Its brain-case had been a sac; its tentacles werelike a snarl of age-hardened leather thongs.
Lying near it was an even greater rarity--the remains of a differentsort of monster from the planet that had been literally explodedin a war with Mars, to form the countless fragments that were theasteroids. That much of remote history was already known from theresearch-expeditions that had gone out to the Red Planet, and beyond.
The queer, advanced equipment of these two beings from two small,swift-cooling worlds--which had borne life early, and whose cultures hadrivalled briefly for dominance of the solar system until they had wipedeach other out those fifty million years ago--lay scattered near them.It was still as bright and new as yesterday, preserved by the Moon'svacuum: Cameras, weapons, instruments--rich loot, now, to be sold tolabs that sought to add the technology of other minds to humanknowledge.
For a year, things went well. The names, BRINKER and COPELAND,footprinted into the lunar dust, helped build the new reputation thatBrinker wanted. Copeland and he were a hard-working team; they coveredmore ground than any other Moon explorers.
The fights that Brinker got into with other toughs at the various supplystations, and never lost, added to the legend--that old Tom's son wassavage and dangerous, but with a gentler side. For instance he oncecarried a crazed Moon-tramp, whom Copeland was too slight to havehandled for a minute, fifty miles on his back to a station. Oh,sure--the stunt could be pure ballyhoo, not charity. But Copeland knewthat more and more people had begun to admire his buddy.
Brinker never found a weak spot in the lunar crust. "It's always abouttwo hundred miles deep, Cope," he said. "Lots thicker than Earth'sshell, because the Moon, being smaller, cooled more. But don't worry;nothing is impossible. Soon I'll have enough money to make minor tests.And maybe enough friends for serious support."
Yeah--maybe it was all just a brain-bubble. But Copeland had seen enoughof desolation to grind the spirit of the Brinker idea into hisbones--even if he didn't think it was quite practical.
"I'll throw my dough in with yours, Jess," he said.
Their named bootprints helped build their fame as explorers; but therewas a flaw and an invitation here which they both must haverealized--and still faced as a calculated risk.
* * * * *
A lunar day later, they were plodding through the Fenwick mountains onthe far hemisphere, when streams of bullets made lava chips fly.
As they flopped prone in the dust, a scratchy voice chuckled: "Hello,Brinker. Maybe you and your pal want my bunch to escort you back toTycho Station. We might as well have the reward. Robbery of a mineralscaravan and three killings, they say. It's terrible how you scatter yourtracks around...."
Brinker grasped Copeland's wrist to form a sound-channel, so that theycould converse without using their radiophones. "That was Krelltalking," he said. "Dad's old partner."
Luckily, it was not many hours to sunset. The mountain ridges, slantingup to the peaks, cast inky shadows that could hide anything. Brinker wascanny; while more bullets spurted, he led a dash back to a ridge-shadowthat went clear to the range-crest. Even with bulky packs, climbing wasa lot faster than on Earth, where things weigh six times as much.
So they got away, over the mountains. The black night of the far side ofthe Moon, where Earth never shines, hid them.
"Making boot-soles with our names on them," Brinker growled bitterly,using the radiophone at reduced range. "The crudest kind of frameup."
"Your Krell is quite a man," Copeland stated.
"He _could_ have arranged all of it--sure," Brinker answered. "He knowsI suspect that he finished Pop, so I'm dangerous to him. He might hateme, too, as part of my Old Man--sort of ... Whatever it was he got soreabout, originally--money or principle, no doubt ... Besides, I don'tthink he wants the Moon to be a little more livable. It would encouragetoo many colonists to come, increase metals production, spoil prices,cheapen his claims. He's a corny man, with all the corny reasons ...
"He, and some of his guys, could have robbed and killed and leftfootprints like ours. But any other lugs, seeking someone else to blamefor their crimes, could have done all that. If that is so, Krell has gotme even _legally_--without blame to himself."
"Footprints!" Copeland snapped. "They're so obviously a frame that it'ssilly; anyone could see that! Another thing--maybe Krell was kidding,scaring us by saying that we are wanted. Tell you what, Jess: In anycase I won't seem as guilty as you; I'll go back alone to Tycho Station,and clear us both."
"You're an optimist, ain't you?" Brinker laughed. "Krell wasn't kidding;and in a rough place like the Moon, justice jumps to conclusions andgets mean, fast. Sure, the purpose of the footprints is obvious. ButI've been fighting uphill against my Old Man's reputation for a longtime. Who's gonna say I haven't backslid? What I want to accomplish istough enough with everything in my favor."
Brinker's voice was now a sinister rumble with a quiver in it. ArneCopeland turned wary again; he had never lost entirely the deepseatednotion that Brinker might cause him misfortune.
"So now what?" he demanded softly, flashing his ato-light beam againstBrinker's face-window, so that he could see his expression. Copelandmeant to forestall danger aggressively.
But as the darkness between them was swept aside, he also saw the muzzleof Brinker's pistol levelled at him. The bigger man's grin was lopsided."I'd give you my neck, Cope," he rumbled. "But I'd give both our necksfor you-know-what. Now, because that's all there's left, I'm gonna tryit Pop's crazy way. You're gonna help. If you and I can last through acouple of years of _real_ silence and solitude, it might have a chance.I got a ship hidden. Give me your gun. Easy! If you think I wouldn'tshoot, you're a fool. Now I'll wire one of your wrists to mine; we'vegot a long march ahead."
* * * * *
Some march it was! Copeland was fiercely independent. The warnings aboutBrinker had gone to waste; so had his own wariness. Bitterness made himsavage. The harshness of the Moon still ached in his guts--he wanted thesteam and gases of its interior tapped and used, yes--but by somereasonable means. Jess Brinker must be truly Moon-balmy, now.Desolation-nuts. Wild for the sight of growing things. Else how could hethink seriously of using Brulow's Comet? Was it hard to guess how?Copeland knew that he and Brinker had courage, and willingness to workfor a sound purpose. But to trade long effort and hardship in aproposition that courted suicide, even in its probable failure--and widedestruction if it managed to be successful--was worse than folly.
So, when these meanings became clear in his mind, he wrestled Brinker atevery turn. Twice he almost won. He argued and cursed, getting nowhere.He defied Brinker to shoot him. The big man didn't do that. But at lastBrinker jabbed a hypodermic needle--part of the regulation medicalkit--through the flexible rubberized fabric of the elbow-joint ofCopeland's spacesuit, and into his arm.
* * * * *
Many hours later, and many miles farther into the mountainous country,Copeland awoke in a cavern with glassy walls, illuminated by Brinker'sato-light. Brinker stood near where he lay. He seemed just grimlygood-humored.
"This is an old Martian supply depot, Cope," he offered. "I found itbefore I knew you, and I ke
pt it in reserve for possible trouble, likenow. I knew I could convert its contents to considerable money at anytime. So it was like a bank-account, and a last resort, too. There'seven a small Martian spaceship; only three others have ever been found,intact. I also cached some Earthly instruments here. You can bet Ididn't leave _any_ tracks for miles around."
Copeland's gaze caught the errie gleam of the strange little craft. Hesaw the stacks of oddly-made boxes and bales. His hackles rose as hethought of a senseless plunge into unplumbed distance.
"Unwire my hands, Jess!" he coaxed again, trying to control fury. "Getwise! Damn you--you're more dangerous as an altruist than any