This story was written twenty-one years before Dr. Neil Armstrong took ôone short step for a man, a giant leap for mankindöùhut in all important essentials it has not (yet) become dated. True, we do not know that formations such as ômorning gloriesö exist on Luna and we do not know that there are areas where footgear midway between skis and snowshoes would be useful. But the Lunar surface is about equal in area to Africa; a dozen men have explored an area smaller than Capetown for a total of a few days. We will still be exploring Luna and finding new wonders there when the first interstellar explorers return from Proxima Centauri or Tau Ceti.
This story is compatible with the so-called ôFuture Historyö stories. It is also part of my continuing postWar-lI attempt to leave the SF-pulp field and spread out. I never left the genre puips entirely, as it turned out to be easy to write a book-length job, then break it into three or four cliff-hangers and sell it as a pulp serial immediately before book publication. I did this with a dozen novels in the æ40s and æSOs. But I recall only one story (GULF) specifically written for pulp, GULF being for AstoundingÆs unique ôprophesiedö issue.
Deus volent, I may someday collect my Boy Scout stories as one volume just as I would like to do with the PuddinÆ stories.
NOTHING EVER HAPPENS ON
THE MOON
ôI never knew a boy from Earth who wasnÆt cocky.ö
Mr. Andrews frowned at his Senior Patrol Leader.
ôThatÆs childish, Sam. And no answer. I arrive expecting to find the troop ready to hike. Instead I find you and our visitor about to fight. And both of you Eagle Scouts! What started it?ö
Sam reluctantly produced a clipping. ôThis, I guess.
It was from the Colorado Scouting News and read:
ôTroop 48, DenverùLOCAL SCOUT SEEKS SKYHIGH HONOR. Bruce Hollifield, Eagle Scout, is moving with his family to South Pole, Venus. Those who know Bruceùand who doesnÆtùexpect him to qualify as Eagle (Venus) in jig time. Bruce will spend three weeks at Luna City, waiting for the Moon-Venus transport. Bruce has been boning up lately on lunar Scouting, and he has already qualified in space suit operation in the vacuum chamber at the PikeÆs Peak space port. Cornered, Bruce admitted that he hopes to pass the tests for Eagle Scout (Luna) while on the Moon.
ôIf he doesùand weÆre betting on Bruce!ùheÆs a dead cinch to become the first Triple Eagle in history.
ôGo to it, Bruce! Denver is proud of you. Show those Moon Scouts what real Scouting is like.ö
Mr. Andrews looked up. ôWhere did this come from?ö
ôUh, somebody sent it to Peewee.ö
ôYes?ö
ôWell, we all read it and when Bruce came in, the fellows ribbed him. He got sore.ö
ôWhy didnÆt you stop it?ö
ôUh .. . well, I was doing it myself.ö
ôHumph! Sam, this item is no sillier than the stuff our own Scribe turns in for publication. Bruce didnÆt write it, and you yahoos had no business making his life miserable. Send him in. Meantime call the roll.ö
ôYes, sir. Uh, Mr. Andrewsùö
ôYes?ö
ôWhatÆs your opinion? Can this kid possibly qualify for lunar Eagle in three weeks?ö
ôNoùand IÆve told him so. But heÆs durn well going to have his chance. Which reminds me: youÆre his instructor.ö
ôMe?ö Sam looked stricken.
ôYou. YouÆve let me down, Sam; this is your chance to correct it. Understand me?ö
Sam swallowed. ôI guess I do.ö
ôSend Hollifield in.ö
Sam found the boy from Earth standing alone, pretending to study the bulletin board. Sam touched his arm. ôThe Skipper wants you.ö
Bruce whirled around, then stalked away. Sam shrugged and shouted, ôRocket Patrolùfall in!ö
Speedy Owens echoed, ôCrescent Patrolùfall in!ö As muster ended Mr. Andrews came out of his office, followed by Bruce. The Earth Scout seemed considerably chastened.
ôMr. Andrews says IÆm to report to you.ö
ôThatÆs right.ö They eyed each other cautiously. Sam said, ôLook, BruceùletÆs start from scratch.ö
ôSuits me.ö
ôFine. Just tag along with me.ö At a sign from the Scoutmaster Sam shouted, ôBy twos! Follow me.ö
Troop One jostled out the door, mounted a crosstown slidewalk and rode to East Air Lock.
Chubby Schneider, troop quartermaster, waited there with two assistants, near a rack of space suits. Duffel was spread around in enormous pilesùpackaged grub, tanks of water, huge air bottles, frames of heavy wire, a great steel drum, everything needed for pioneers on the airless crust of the Moon.
Sam introduced Bruce to the Quartermaster. ôWeÆve got to outfit him, Chubby.ö
ôThat new G.E. job might fit him.ö
Sam got the suit and spread it out. The suit was impregnated glass fabric, aluminum-sprayed to silvery whiteness. It closed from crotch to collar with a zippered gasket. It looked expensive; Bruce noticed a plate on the collar: DONATED BY THE LUNA CITY KIWANIS KLUB.
The helmet was a plastic bowl, silvered except where swept by the eyes of the wearer. There it was transparent, though heavily filtered.
BruceÆs uniform was stowed in a locker; Chubby handed him a loose-knit coverall. Sam and Chubby stuffed him into the suit and Chubby produced the instrument belt.
Both edges of the belt zipped to the suit; there were several rows of grippers for the top edge; thus a pleat could be taken. They fastened it with maximum pleat. ôHowÆs that?ö asked Sam.
ôThe collar cuts my shoulders.ö
ôIt wonÆt under pressure. If we leave slack, your head will pull out of the helmet like a cork.ö Sam strapped the air, water, radio, and duffel-rack backpack to BruceÆs shoulders. ôPressure check, Chubby.ö
ôWeÆll dress first.ö While Chubby and Sam dressed, Bruce located his intake and exhaust valves, the spill valve inside his collar, and the water nipple beside it. He took a drink and inspected his belt.
Sam and Bruce donned helmets. Sam switched on BruceÆs walkie-talkie, clipped a blood-oxygen indica
tor to BruceÆs ear, and locked his helmet on. ôStand by for pressure,ö he said, his words echoing in BruceÆs helmet. Chubby hooked hose from a wall gauge to BruceÆs air intake.
Bruce felt the collar lift. The air in the suit grew stuffy, the helmet fogged. At thirty pounds Chubby cut the intake, and watched the gauge. Mr. Andrews joined them, a Gargantuan helmeted figure, toting a pack six feet high. ôPressure steady, sir,ö Chubby reported.
Sam hooked up BruceÆs air supply. ôOpen your intake and kick your chin valve before you smother,ö he ordered. Bruce complied. The stale air rushed out and the helmet cleared. Sam adjusted BruceÆs valves. ôWatch that needle,ö he ordered, pointing to the blood-oxygen dial on BruceÆs belt. ôKeep your mix so that reads steady in the white without using your chin valve.
ôI know.ö
ôSo IÆll say it again. Keep that needle out of the red, or youÆll explain it to Saint Peter.ö
The Scoutmaster asked, ôWhat load are you giving him?ö
ôOh,ö replied Sam, ôjust enough to steady himùsay three hundred pounds, total.ö
Bruce figuredùat one-sixth gravity that meant fifty pounds weight including himself, his suit, and his pack. ôIÆll carry my full share,ö he objected.
ôWeÆll decide whatÆs best for you,ö the Scoutmaster snapped. ôHurry up; the troop is ready.ö He left.
Sam switched off his radio and touched helmets. ôForget it,ö he said quietly. ôThe Old Man is edgy at the start of a hike.ö They loaded Bruce rapidlyùreserve air and water bottles, a carton of grub, short, wide skis and ski polesùthen hung him with field gear, first-aid kit, prospectorÆs hammer, two climbing ropes, a pouch of pitons and snap rings, flashlight, knife. The Moon Scouts loaded up; Sam called, ôCome
Mr. Andrews handed the lockmaster a list and stepped inside; the three Scouts followed. Bruce felt his suit expand as the air sucked back into the underground city. A light blinked green; Mr. Andrews opened the outer door and Bruce stared across the airless lunar plain.
It dazzled him. The plain was bright under a blazing Sun. The distant needle-sharp hills seemed painted in colors too flat and harsh. He looked at the sky to rest his eyes.
It made him dizzy. He had never seen a whole skyful of stars undimmed by air. The sky was blacker than black, crowded with hard, diamond lights.
ôRoute march!ö the ScoutmasterÆs voice rang in his helmet. ôHeel and toe. Jack Wills out as pathfinder.ö A boy left the group in long, floating strides, fifteen feet at a bound. He stopped a hundred yards ahead; the troop formed single column fifty yards behind him. The Pathfinder raised his arm, swung it down, and the troop moved out.
Mr. Andrews and a Scout joined Sam and Bruce. ôSpeedy will help you,ö he told Sam, ôuntil Bruce gets his legs. Move him along. We canÆt heel-and-toe and still make our mileage.ö
ôWeÆll move him.ö
ôEven if we have to carry him,ö added Speedy.
The Scoutmaster overtook the troop in long leaps. Bruce wanted to follow. It looked easyùlike flying. He had not liked the crack about carrying him. But Sam grasped him by his left belt grip while Speedy seized the one on his right. ôHere we go,ö Sam warned. ôFeet on the ground and try to swing in with us.ö
Bruce started off confidently. He felt that three days of low gravity in the corridors of Luna City had given him his ôlegsö; being taught to walk, like a baby, was just hazing.
Nothing to itùhe was light as a bird! True, it was hard to keep heel-and-toe; he wanted to float. He gained speed on a downgrade; suddenly the ground
was not there when he reached for it. He threw up his hands.
He hung head down on his belt and could hear his guides laughing. ôWhaÆ happened?ö he demanded, as they righted him.
ôKeep your feet on the ground.ö
ôI know what youÆre up against,ö added Speedy, ôIÆve been to Earth. Your mass and weight donÆt match and your muscles arenÆt used to it. You weigh what a baby weighs, Earth-side, but youÆve got the momentum of a fat man.ö
Bruce tried again. Some stops and turns showed him what Speedy meant. His pack felt like feathers, but unless he banked his turns, it would throw him, even at a walk. It did throw him, several times, before his legs learned.
Presently, Sam asked, ôThink youÆre ready for a slow lope?ö
ôI guess so.ö
ôOkayùbut remember, if you want to turn, youÆve got to slow down firstùor youÆll roll like a hoop. Okay, Speedy. An eight-miler.ö
Bruce tried to match their swing. Long, floating strides, like flying. It was flying! Up! . . . float . . . brush the ground with your foot and up again. It was better than skating or skiing.
ôWups!ö Sam steadied him. ôGet your feet out in front.ö
As they swung past, Mr. Andrews gave orders for a matching lope.
The unreal hills had moved closer; Bruce felt as if he had been flying all his life. ôSam,ö he said, ôdo you suppose I can get along by myself?ö
ôShouldnÆt wonder. We let go a couple oÆ miles back.ö
ôHuh?ö It was true; Bruce began to feel like a Moon hand.
Somewhat later a boyÆs voice called ôHeel and toe!ö
The troop dropped into a walk. The pathfinder stood on a rise ahead, holding his skis up~ The troop halted and unlashed skis. Ahead was a wide basin filled with soft, powdery stuff.
Bruce turned to Sam, and for the first time looked back to the west. ôJee .. . miny Crickets!ö he breathed.
Earth hung over the distant roof of Luna City, in half phase. It was round and green and beautiful, larger than the harvest Moon and unmeasurably more lovely in forest greens, desert browns and glare white of cloud.
Sam glanced at it. ôFifteen oÆclock.ö
Bruce tried to read the time but was stumped by the fact that the sunrise line ran mostly across ocean. He questioned Sam. ôHuh? See that bright dot on the dark side? ThatÆs Honoluluùfigure from there.ö
Bruce mulled this over while binding his skis, then stood up and turned around, without tripping. ôHmmmùö said Sam, ôyouÆre used to skis.ö
ôGot my badge.ö
ôWell, this is different. Just shuffle along and try to keep your feet.ö
Bruce resolved to stay on his feet if it killed him. He let a handful of the soft stuff trickle through his glove. It was light and flaky, hardly packed at all. He wondered what had caused it.
Mr. Andrews sent Speedy out to blaze trail; Sam and Bruce joined the column. Bruce was hard put to keep up. The loose soil flew to left and right, settling so slowly in the weak gravity that it seemed to float in airùyet a ski pole, swung through such a cloud, cut a knife-sharp hole without swirling it.
The column swung wide to the left, then back again. Off to the right was a circular depression perhaps fifty yards across; Bruce could not see the bottom. He paused, intending to question Sam; the ScoutmasterÆs voice prodded him. ôBruce! Keep moving!ö
Much later SpeedyÆs voice called out, ôHard ground!ö Shortly the column reached it and stopped
to remove skis. Bruce switched off his radio and touched his helmet to SamÆs.
ôWhat was that back where the Skipper yelled at me?ö
ôThat? That was a morning glory. TheyÆre poison!ö
ôA æmorning gloryÆ?ö
ôSort of a sink hole. If you get on the slope, you never get out. Crumbles out from under you and you wind up buried in the bottom. There you stayùuntil your air gives out. Lot of prospectors die that way. They go out alone and are likely to come back in the dark.ö
ôHow do you know what happens if they go out alone?ö
ôSuppose you saw tracks leading up to one and no tracks going away?ö
ôOh!ö Bruce felt silly.
The troop swung into a lope; slowly the hills drew closer and loomed high into the sky. Mr. Andrews called a halt. ôCamp,ö he said. ôSam, spot the shelter west of that outcropping. Bruce, watch what Sam does.
The shelter was an airtight tent, framed by a half cylinder of woven heavy wire. The frame came in sections. The ScoutmasterÆs huge pack was the air bag.
The skeleton was erected over a ground frame, anchored at corners and over which was spread an asbestos pad. The curved roof and wall sections followed. Sam tested joints with a wrench, then ordered the air bag unrolled. The air lock, a steel drum, was locked into the frame and gasketed to the bag. Meanwhile, two Scouts were rigging a Sun shade.
Five boys crawled inside and stood up, arms stretched high. The others passed in all the duffel except skis and poles. Mr. Andrews was last in and closed the air lock. The metal frame blocked radio communication; Sam plugged a phone connection from the lock to his helmet. ôTesting,ö he said.
Bruce could hear the answer, relayed through SamÆs radio. ôReady to inflate.ö
ôOkay.ö The bag surged up, filling the frame. Sam said, ôYou go on, Bruce. ThereÆs nbthing left but to adjust the shade.ö
ôIÆd better watch.ö
ôOkay.ö The shade was a flimsy venetian blind, stretched over the shelter. Sam half-opened the slats. ôItÆs cold inside,ö he commented, ôfrom expanding gas. But it warms up fast.ö Presently, coached by phone, he closed them a bit. ôGo inside,ö he urged Bruce. ôIt may be half an hour before I get the temperature steady.ö
ôMaybe I should,ö admitted Bruce. ôI feel dizzy.ö
Sam studied him. ôToo hot?ö
ôYeah, I guess so.ö
ôYouÆve held still in the Sun too long. DoesnÆt give the air a chance to circulate. Here.ö Sam opened BruceÆs supply valve wider; ôGo inside.ö
Gratefully, Bruce complied.
As he backed in, and straightened up, two boys grabbed him. They closed his valves, unlocked his helmet, and peeled off his suit. The suit traveled from hand to hand and was racked. Bruce looked around.
Daylamps were strung from air lock to a curtain at the far end that shut off the sanitary unit. Near this curtain suits and helmets were racked. Scouts were lounging on both sides of the long room. Near the entrance a Scout was on watch at the air conditioner, a blood-oxygen indicator clipped to his ear. Nearby, Mr. Andrews phoned temperature changes to Sam. In the middle of the room Chubby had set up his commissary. He waved. ôHi, Bruce! Siddownùchow in two shakes.ö
Two Scouts made room for Bruce and he sat. One of them said, ôYÆever been at Yale?ö Bruce had not. ôThatÆs where IÆm going,ö the Scout confided. ôMy brotherÆs there now.ö Bruce began to feel at home.
When Sam came in Chubby served chow, beef stew, steaming and fragrant, packaged rolls, and bricks of peach ice cream. Bruce decided that Moon Scouts had
it soft. After supper, the Bugler got out his harmonica and played. Bruce leaned back, feeling pleasantly drowsy.
ôHollifield!ö Bruce snapped awake. ôLetÆs try you on first aid.ö
For thirty minutes Bruce demonstrated air tourniquets and emergency suit patches, artificial respiration for a man in a space suit, what to do for Sun stroke, for anoxia, for fractures. ôThatÆll do,ö the Scoutmaster concluded. ôOne thing: What do you do if a man cracks his helmet?ö
Bruce was puzzled. ôWhy,ö he blurted, ôyou bury him.ö
ôCheck,ö the Scoutmaster agreed. ôSo be careful. Okay, sportsùsix hours of sleep. Sam, set the watch.ö
Sam assigned six boys, including himself. Bruce asked, ôShouldnÆt I take a watch?ö
Mr. Andrews intervened. ôNo. And take yourself off, Sam. YouÆll take Bruce on his two-man hike tomorrow; youÆll need your sleep.ö
ôOkay, Skipper.ö He added to Bruce, ôThereÆs nothing to it. IÆll show you.ö The Scout on duty watched several instruments, but, as with suits, the important one was the blood-oxygen reading. Stale air was passed through a calcium oxide bath, which precipitated carbon dioxide as calcium carbonate. The purified air continued through dry sodium hydroxide, removing water vapor.
ôThe kid on watch makes sure the oxygen replacement is okay,ö Sam went on. ôIf anything went wrong, heÆd wake us and weÆd scramble into suits.ö
Mr. Andrews shooed them to bed. By the time Bruce had taken his turn at the sanitary unit and found a place to lie down, the harmonica was sobbing: ôDay is done Gone the Sun. . .ô
It seemed odd to hear Taps when the Sun was still overhead. They couldnÆt wait a week for sundown, of
course. These colonials kept funny~ hours. . . bed at what amounted to early evening, up at one in the morning. HeÆd ask Sam. Sam wasnÆt a bad guyùa little bit know-it-all. Odd to sleep on a bare floor, tooù not that it mattered with low gravity. He was still pondering it when his ears were assaulted by Reveille, played on the harmonica.
Breakfast was scrambled eggs, cooked on the spot. Camp was struck, and the troop was moving in less than an hour. They headed for Base Camp at a lope.
The way wound through passes, skirted craters. They had covered thirty miles and Bruce was getting hungry when the pathfinder called, ôHeel and toe!ö They converged on an air lock, set in a hillside.
Base Camp had not the slick finish of Luna City, being rough caverns sealed to airtightness, but each troop had its own well-equipped troop room. Air was renewed by hydroponic garden, like Luna City; there was a Sun power plant and accumulators to last through the long, cold nights.
Bruce hurried through lunch; he was eager to start his two-man hike. They outfitted as before, except that reserve air and water replaced packaged grub. Sam fitted a spring-fed clip of hiking rations into the collar of BruceÆs suit.
The Scoutmaster inspected them at the lock. ôWhere to, Sam?ö
ôWeÆll head southeast. IÆll blaze it.ö
ôHmmùrough country. Well, back by midnight, and stay out of caves.ö
ôYes, sir.ö
Outside Sam sighed, ôWhew! I thought he was going to say not to climb.ö
ôWeÆre going to?ö
ôSure. You can, canÆt you?ö
ôGot my Alpine badge.ö
ôIÆll do the hard part, anyhow. LetÆs go.ö
Sam led out of the hills and across a baked plain. He
hit an eight-mile gait, increased it to a twelve-miler. Bruce swung along, enjoying it. ôSwell of you to do this, Sam.ö
ôNuts. If I werenÆt here, IÆd be helping to seal the gymnasium.ö
ôJust the same, I need this hike for my Mooncraft badge.ö
Sam let several strides pass. ôLook, Bruceùyou donÆt really expect to make Lunar Eagle?ö
ôWhy not? IÆve got my optional badges. There are only four required ones that are terribly different:
camping, Mooncraft, pathfinding, and pioneering. IÆve studied like the dickens and now IÆm getting experience.
ôI donÆt doubt youÆve studied. But the Review Board are tough eggs. YouÆve got to be a real Moon hand to get by.ö
ôThey wonÆt pass a Scout from Earth?ö
ôPut it this way. The badges you need add up to one thing, Mooncraft. The examiners are old Moon hands; you wonÆt get by with book answers. TheyÆll know how long youÆve been here and theyÆll know you donÆt know enough.ö
Bruce thought about it. ôItÆs not fair!ö
Sam snorted. ôMooncraft isnÆt a game; itÆs the real thing. æDid you stay alive?Æ If you make a mistake, you flunkùand they bury you.ö
Bruce had no answer.
Presently they came to hills; Sam stopped and called Base Camp. ôParsons and Hollifield, Troop Oneùplease take a bearing.ö
Shortly Base replied, ôOne one eight. WhatÆs your mark?ö
ôCairn with a note.ö
ôRoger.ö
Sam piled up stones, then wrote date, time, and their names on paper torn from a pad in his pouch, and laid it on top. ôNow we start up.ö
The way was rough and unpredictable; this canyon
had never been a watercourse. Several times Sam stretched a line before he would let Bruce follow. At intervals he blazed the rock with his hammer. They came to an impasse, five hundred feet of rock, the first hundred of which was vertical and smooth.
Bruce stared. ôWeÆre going up that?ö
ôSure. Watch your Uncle Samuel.ö A pillar thrust up above the vertical pitch. Sam clipped two lines together and began casting the bight up toward it. Twice he missed and the line floated down. At last it went over.
Sam drove a piton into the wall, off to one side, clipped a snap ring to it, and snapped on the line. He had Bruce join him in a straight pull on the free end to test the piton. Bruce then anchored to the snap ring with a rope strap; Sam started to climb.
Thirty feet up, he made fast to the line with his legs and drove another piton; to this he fastened a safety line. Twice more he did this. He reached the pillar and called, ôOff belay!ö
Bruce unlinked the line; it snaked up the cliff. Presently Sam shouted, ôOn belay!ö
Bruce answered, ôTesting,ö and tried unsuccessfully to jerk down the line Sam had lowered.
ôClimb,ö ordered Sam.
ôClimbing.ö One-sixth gravity, Bruce decided, was a mountaineerÆs heaven. He paused on the way up only to unsnap the safety line.
Bruce wanted to ôleapfrogö up the remaining pitches, but Sam insisted on leading. Bruce was soon glad of it; he found three mighty differences between climbing on Earth and climbing here; the first was low gravity, but the others were disadvantages: balance climbing was awkward in a suit, and chimney climbing, or any involving knees and shoulders, was clumsy and carried danger of tearing the suit.
They came out on raw, wild upland surrounded by pinnacles, bright against black sky. ôWhere to?ö asked Bruce.
Sam studied the stars, then pointed southeast. ôThe photomaps show open country that way.ö
ôSuits me.ö They trudged away; the country was too rugged to lope. They had been traveling a long time, it seemed to Bruce, when they came out on a higher place from which Earth could be seen. ôWhat time is it?ö he asked.
ôAlmost seventeen,ö Sam answered, glancing up.
ôWeÆre supposed to be back by midnight.ö
ôWell,ö admitted Sam, ôI expected to reach open country before now.ö
ôWeÆre lost?ö
ôCertainly not! IÆve blazed it. But IÆve never been here before. I doubt if anyone has.ö
ôSuppose we keep on for half an hour, then turn back?ö
ôFair enough.ö They continued for at least that; Sam conceded that it was time to turn.
ôLetÆs try that next rise,ö urged Bruce.
ôOkay.ö Sam reached the top first. ôHey, Bruceùwe made it!ö
Bruce joined him. ôGolly!ö Two thousand feet below stretched a dead lunar plain. Mountains rimmed it except to the south. Five miles away two small craters formed a figure eight.
ôI know where we are,ö Sam announced. ôThat pair shows up on the photos. We slide down here, circle south about twenty miles, and back to Base. A cinchù howÆs your air?ö
BruceÆs bottle showed fair pressure; SamÆs was down, he having done more work. They changed both bottles and got ready. Sam drove a piton, snapped on a ring, fastened a line to his belt and passed it through the ring. The end of the line he passed between his legs, around a thigh and across his chest, over his shoulder and to his other hand, forming a rappel seat. He began to ôwalkö down the cliff, feeding slack as needed.
He reached a shoulder below Bruce. ôOff rappel!ö he called, and recovered his line by pulling it through the ring.
Bruce rigged a rappel seat and joined him. The pitches became steeper; thereafter Sam sent Bruce down first, while anchoring him above. They came to a last high sheer drop. Bruce peered over. ôLooks like here we roost.ö
ôMaybe.ö Sam bent all four lines together and measured it. Ten feet of line reached the rubble at the base.
Bruce said, ôItÆll reach, but we have to leave the lines behind us.ö
Sam scowled. ôGlass lines cost money; theyÆre from Earth.ö
ôBeats staying here.ö
Sam searched the cliff face, then drove a piton. ôIÆll lower you. When youÆre halfway, drive two pitons and hang the strap from one. ThatÆll give me a changeover.ö
ôIÆm against it,ö protested Bruce.
ôIf we lost our lines,ö Sam argued, ôweÆll never hear the last of it. Go ahead.ö
ôI still donÆt like it.ö
ôWhoÆs in charge?ö
Bruce shrugged, snapped on the line and started down.
Sam stopped him presently. ôHalfway. Pick me a nest.ö
Bruce walked the face to the right, but found only smooth wall. He worked back and located a crack. ôHereÆs a crack,ö he reported, ôbut just one. I shouldnÆt drive two pitons in one crack.ö
ôSpread æem apart,ö Sam directed. ôItÆs good rock.ö Reluctantly, Bruce complied. The spikes went in easily but he wished he could hear the firm ring that meant a piton was biting properly. Finished, he hung the strap. ôLower away!ö
In a couple of minutes he was down and unsnapped the line. ôOff belay!ö He hurried down the loose rock at the base. When he reached the edge of it he called, ôSam! This plain is soft stuff.ö
ôOkay,ö Sam acknowledged. ôStand clear.ö Bruce
moved along the cliff about fifty feet and stopped to bind on skis. Then he shuffled out onto the plain, kickturned, and looked back. Sam had reached the pitons. He hung, one foot in the strap, the bight in his elbow, and recovered his line. He passed his line through the second piton ring, settled in rappel, and hooked the strap from piton to piton as an anchor. He started down.
Halfway down the remaining two hundred feet he stopped. ôWhatÆs the matter?ö called Bruce.
ôItÆs reached a shackle,ö said Sam, ôand the pesky thing wonÆt feed through the ring. IÆll free it.ö He raised himself a foot, then suddenly let what he had gained slip through the ring above.
To BruceÆs amazement Sam leaned out at an impossible angle. He heard Sam cry ôRock!ö before he understood what had happenedùthe piton had failed.
Sam fell about four feet, then the other piton, connected by the strap, stopped him. He caught himself, feet spread. But the warning cry had not been pointless; Bruce saw a rock settling straight for SamÆs helmet. Bruce repeated the shout.
Sam looked up, then jumped straight out from the cliff. The rock passed between him and the wall; Bruce could not tell if it had struck him. Sam swung in, his feet caught the cliffùand again he leaned out crazily. The second piton had let go.
Sam again shouted, ôRock!ö even as he kicked himself away from the cliff.
Bruce watched him, turning slowly over and over and gathering momentum. It seemed to take Sam forever to fall.
Then he struck.
Bruce fouled his skis and had to pick himself up. He forced himself to be careful and glided toward the spot.
SamÆs frantic shove had saved him from crashing his helmet into rock. He lay buried in the loose debris, one leg sticking up ridiculously. Bruce felt an hysteri
cal desire to laugh.
Sam did not stir when Bruce tugged at him. BruceÆs skis got in his way; finally he stood astraddle, hauled Sam out. The boyÆs eyes were closed, his features slack, but the suit still had pressure. ôSam,ö shouted Bruce, ôcan you hear me?ö
SamÆs blood-oxygen reading was dangerously in the red; Bruce opened his intake valve widerùbut the reading failed to improve. He wanted to turn Sam face down, but he had no way of straightening SamÆs helmeted head, nor would he then be able to watch the blood-oxygen indicator unless he took time to remove the belt. He decided to try artificial respiration with the patient face up. He kicked off skis and belt.
The pressure in the suit got in his way, nor could he fit his hands satisfactorily to SamÆs ribs. But he kept at itùswing! and one, and two and up! and one, and two and swing!
The needle began to move. When it was well into the white Bruce paused.
It stayed in the white.
SamÆs lips moved but no sound came. Bruce touched helmets. ôWhat is it, Sam?ö
Faintly he heard, ôLook out! Rock!ö
Bruce considered what to do next.
There was little he could do until he got Sam into a pressurized room. The idea, he decided, was to get helpùfast!
Send up a smoke signal? Fire a gun three times? Snap out of it, Bruce! YouÆre on the Moon now. He wished that someone would happen along in a desert car.
He would have to try radio. He wasnÆt hopeful, as they had heard nothing even from the cliff. Still, he must tryù He glanced at SamÆs blood-oxygen reading, then climbed the rubble, extended his antenna and tried. ôMÆaidez!ö he called. ôHelp! Does anybody hear me?ö He tried again.
And again.
When he saw Sam move he hurried back. Sam was sitting up and feeling his left knee. Bruce touched helmets. ôSam, are you all right?ö
ôHuh? This leg wonÆt work right.ö
ôIs it broken?ö
ôHow do I know? Turn on your radio.ö
ôIt is on. Yours is busted.ö
ôHuh? HowÆd that happen?ö
ôWhen you fell.ö
ôFell?ö
Bruce pointed. ôDonÆt you remember?ö
Sam stared at the cliff. ôUh, I donÆt know. Say, this thing hurts like mischief. WhereÆs the rest of the troop?ö
Bruce said slowly, ôWeÆre out by ourselves, Sam. Remember?ö
Sam frowned. ôI guess so. Bruce, weÆve got to get out of here! Help me get my skis on.ö
ôDo you think you can ski with that knee?ö
ôIÆve got to.ö Bruce lifted him to his feet, then bound a ski to the injured leg while Sam balanced on the other. But when Sam tried shifting his weight he collapsedùand fainted.
Bruce gave him air and noted that the blood-oxygen reading was still okay. He untangled the ski, straightened out SamÆs legs, and waited. When SamÆs eyes fluttered he touched helmets. ôSam, can you understand me?ö
ôYeah. Sure.ö
~You,,canÆt stay on your feet. IÆll carry you.ö
No.
ôWhat do you mean, æNoÆ?ö
ôNo good. Rig a toboggan.ö He closed his eyes.
Bruce laid SamÆs skis side by side. Two steel rods were clipped to the tail of each ski; he saw how they were meant to be used. Slide a rod through four ring studs, two on each ski; snap a catchùso! Fit the other rods. Remove bindingsùthe skis made a passable narrow toboggan.
He removed SamÆs pack, switched his bottles around in front and told him to hold them. ôIÆm going to move you. Easy, now!ö The space-suited form hung over the edges, but there was no help for it. He found he could thread a rope under the rods and lash his patient down. SamÆs pack he tied on top.
He made a hitch by tying a line to the holes in the tips of the skis; there was a long piece left over. He said to Sam, ôIÆll tie this to my arm. If you want anything, just jerk.ö
Okay.
ôHere we go.ö Bruce put on his skis, brought the hitch up to his armpits and ducked his head through, forming a harness. He grasped his ski poles and set out to the south, parallel to the cliff.
The toboggan drag steadied him; he settled down to covering miles. Earth was shut off by the cliff; the Sun gave him no estimate of hour. There was nothing but blackness, stars, the blazing Sun, a burning desert underfoot, and the towering cliffùnothing but silence and the urgency to get back to base.
Something jerked his arm. It scared him before he accounted for it. He went back to the toboggan. ôWhat is it, Sam?ö
ôI canÆt stand it. ItÆs too hot.ö The boyÆs face was white and sweat-covered.
Bruce gave him a shot of air, then thought about it. There was an emergency shelter in SamÆs pack, just a rolled-up awning with a collapsible frame. Fifteen minutes later he was ready to move. One awning support was tied upright to the sole of one of SamÆs boots; the other Bruce had bent and wedged under SamÆs shoulders. The contraption looked ready to fall apart but it held. ôThere! Are you okay?ö
ôIÆm fine. Look, Bruce, I think my knee is all right now. Let me try it.ö
Bruce felt out the knee through the suit. It was twice the size of its mate; he could feel Sam wince. He touched helmets. ôYouÆre full of hop, chum. Relax.ö
Bruce got back into harness.
Hours later, Bruce came across tracks. They swung in from northeast, turned and paralleled the hills. He stopped and told Sam.
ôSay, Sam, how can I tell how old they are?ö
ôYou canÆt. A track fifty years old looks as fresh as a new one.
ôNo point in following these?ö
ôNo harm in it, provided they go in our direction.ö
ôRoger.ö Bruce went back to towing. He called hopefully over the radio every few minutes and then listened. The tracks cheered him even though he knew how slim the chance was that they meant anything. The tracks swung out from the hills presently or, rather, the hills swung in, forming a bay. He took the shorter route as his predecessor had.
He should have seen what was coming. He knew that he should keep his eyes ahead, but the need to watch his instruments, the fact that he was leaning into harness, and the circumstance that he was following tracks combined to keep his head down. He had just glanced back at Sam when he felt his skis slipping out from under him.
Automatically he bent his knees and threw his skis into a ôsnowplow.ö He might have been able to stop had not the toboggan been scooting along behind. It plowed into him; boy, skis, and toboggan went down, tangled like jackstraws.
He struggled for footing, felt the sand slip under him. He had time to see that he had been caughtùin daylight!ùby that lunar equivalent of quicksand, a morning glory. Then the sifting dust closed over his helmet.
He felt himself slip, slide, fall, slide again, and come softly to rest.
Bruce tried to get his bearings. Part of his mind was busy with horror, shock, and bitter self blame for having failed Sam; another part seemed able to drive
ahead with the business at hand. He did not seem hurtùand he was still breathing. Heisupposed that he was buried in a morning glory; he suspected that any movement would bury him deeper.
Nevertheless he had to locate Sam. He felt his way up to his neck, pushing the soft flakes aside. The toboggan hitch was still on him. He got both hands on it and heaved. It was frustrating work, like swimming in mud. Gradually he dragged the sled to him-or himself to the sled. Presently he felt his way down the load and located SamÆs helmet. ôSam! Can you hear me?ö
The reply was muffled. ôYeah, Bruce!ö
ôAre you okay?ö
ôOkay? DonÆt be silly! WeÆre in a morning glory!ö
ôYes, I know. Sam, IÆm terribly sorry!ö
ôWell, donÆt cry about it. It canÆt be helped.ö
ôI didnÆt mean toùö
ôStow it, canÆt you!ö SamÆs voice concealed panic with anger. ôIt doesnÆt matter. WeÆre gonersùdonÆt you realize that?ö
ôHuh? No, weÆre not! Sam, IÆll get you outùI swear I will.ö
Sam waited before replying. ôDonÆt kid yourself, Bruce. Nobody ever gets out of a morning glory.ö
ôDonÆt talk like that. We arenÆt dead yet.ö
ôNo, but weÆre going to be. IÆm trying to get used to the idea.ö He paused. ôDo me a favor, Bruceùget me loose from these confounded skis. I donÆt want to die tied down.ö
ôRight away!ö In total darkness, his hands in gloves, with only memory to guide him, and with the soft, flaky dust everywhere, unlashing the load was nearly impossible. He shifted position, then suddenly noticed somethingùhis left arm was free of the dust.
He shifted and got his helmet free as well. The darkness persisted; he fumbled at his belt, managed to locate his flashlight.
He was lying partly out and mostly in a sloping mass of soft stuff. Close overhead was a rocky roof; many
feet below the pile spilled over a floor of rock. Sideways the darkness swallowed up the beam.
He still clutched the toboggan; he hauled at it, trying to drag Sam out. Failing, he burrowed back in. ôHey, Sam! WeÆre in a cave!ö
ôHuh?ö
ôHang on. IÆll get you out.ö Bruce cautiously thrashed around in an attempt to get his entire body outside the dust. It kept caving down on him. Worse, his skis anchored his feet. He kicked one loose, snaked his arm in, and dragged it out. It slid to the base of the pile. He repeated the process, then rolled and scrambled to the floor, still clinging to the hitch.
He set the light on the rock floor, and put the skis aside, then heaved mightily. Sam, toboggan, and load came sliding down, starting a small avalanche. Bruce touched helmets. ôLook! WeÆre getting somewhere!ö
Sam did not answer. Bruce persisted, ôSam, did you hear me?ö
ôI heard you. Thanks for pulling me out. Now untie me, will you?ö
ôHold the light.ö Bruce got busy. Shortly he was saying, ôThere you are. Now IÆll stir around and find the way out.ö
ôWhat makes you think there is a way out?ö
ôHuh? DonÆt talk like that. Who ever heard of a cave with no exit?ö
Sam answered slowly, ôHe didnÆt find one.ö
ôLook.ö Sam shined the light past Bruce. On the rock a few feet away was a figure in an old-fashioned space suit.
Bruce took the light and cautiously approached the figure. The man was surely dead; his suit was limp. He lay at ease, hands folded across his middle, as if taking a nap. Bruce pointed the torch at the glass face plate. The face inside was lean and dark, skin clung to the bones; Bruce turned the light away.
He came back shortly to Sam. ôHe didnÆt make out
so well,ö Bruce said soberly. ôI found these papers in his pouch. WeÆll take them with us ~so we can let his folks know.ö
ôYou are an incurable optimist, arenÆt you? Well, all right.ö Sam took them. There were two letters, an oldstyle flat photograph of a little girl and a dog, and some other papers. One was a driverÆs license for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, dated June 1995 and signed Abner Green.
Bruce stared. ô1995! Gee Whiz!ö
ôI wouldnÆt count on notifying his folks.ö
Bruce changed the subject. ôHe had one thing we can use. This.ö It was a coil of manila rope. ôIÆll hitch all the lines together, one end to your belt and one to mine. ThatÆ!! give me five or six hundred feet. If you want me, just pull.ö
ôOkay. Watch your step.ö
ôIÆll be careful. YouÆll be all right?ö
ôSure. IÆve got him for company.ö
ôWell . . . . here goes.ö
One direction seemed as good as another. Bruce kept the line taut to keep from walking in a circle. The rock curved up presently and his flash showed that it curved back on itself, a dead end. He followed the wall to the left, picking his way, as the going was very rough. He found himself in a passage. It seemed to climb, but it narrowed. Three hundred feet and more out by the ropes, it narrowed so much that he was stopped.
Bruce switched off his light and waited for his eyes to adjust. He became aware of a curious sensation. It was panic.
He forced himself not to turn on the light until he was certain that no gleam lay ahead. Then thankfully he stumbled back into the main cavern.
Another series of chambers led steadily downward. He turned back at a black and bottomless hole.
The details varied but the answers did not: At the furthest reach of the lines, or at some impassable ob
stacle, he would wait in the darkùbut no gleam of light ever showed. He went back to Sam after having covered, he estimated, about 1800.
Sam had crawled up to the heap of fallen dust. Bruce hurried to him. ôSam, are you all right?ö
ôSure. I just moved to a feather bed. That rock is terribly cold. What did you find?ö
ôWell, nothing yet,ö he admitted. He sat down in the flaky pile and leaned toward Sam. ôIÆll start again in a moment.ö
ôHowÆs your air supply?ö asked Sam.
ôUh, IÆll have to crack my reserve bottle soon. HowÆs yours?ö
ôMine is throttled to the limit. YouÆre doing all the work; I can save my reserve bottle for youùI think.ö
Bruce frowned. He wanted to protest, but the gesture wouldnÆt make sense. They would have to finish up all even; naturally he was using much more air than was Sam.
One thing was sureùtime was running out. Finally he said, ôLook, SamùthereÆs no end of those caves and passages. I couldnÆt search them all with all the air in Luna City.ö
ôI was afraid so.ö
ôBut we know thereÆs a way out right above us.ö
ôYou mean in.ö
ôI mean out. See hereùthis morning glory thing is built like an hour glass; thereÆs an open cone on top, and this pile of sand down below. The stuff trickled down through a hole in the roof and piled up until it choked the hole.ö
ôWhere does that get you?ö
ôWell, if we dug the stuff away we could clear the hole.ö
ôIt would keep sifting down.ö
ôNo, it wouldnÆt, it would reach a point where there wasnÆt enough dust close by to sift down any furtherù there would still be a hole.ö
Sam considered it. ôMaybe. But when you tried to
climb up it would collapse back on you. ThatÆs the bad part about a morning glory, Bruce; you canÆt get a foothold.ö
ôThe dickens I canÆt! If I canÆt climb a slope on skis without collapsing it, when IÆve got my wits about me and am really trying, why, you can have my reserve air bottle.ö
Sam chuckled. ôDonÆt be hasty. I might hold you to it. Anyhow,ö he added, ôI canÆt climb it.ö
ôOnce I get my feet on the level, IÆll pull you out like a cork, even if youÆre buried. TimeÆs a-wastinÆ.ö Bruce got busy.
Using a ski as a shovel he nibbled at the giant pile. Every so often it would collapse down on him. It did not discourage him; Bruce knew that many yards of the stuff would have to fall and be moved back before the hole would show.
Presently he moved Sam over to the freshly moved waste. From there Sam held the light; the work went faster. Bruce began to sweat. After a while he had to switch air bottles; he sucked on his water tube and ate a march ration before getting back to work.
He began to see the hole opening above him. A great pile collapsed on him; he backed out, looked up, then went to Sam. ôTurn out the light!ö
There was no doubt; a glimmer of light filtered down. Bruce found himself pounding Sam and shouting. He stopped and said, ôSam, old boy, did lever say what patrol IÆm from?ö
ôNo. Why?ö
ôBadger Patrol. Watch me dig!ö He tore into it. Shortly sunlight poured into the hole and reflected dimly around the cavern. Bruce shoveled until he could see a straight rise from the base of the pile clear to the edge of the morning glory high above them. He decided that the opening was wide enough to tackle.
He hitched himself to Sam with the full length of all the glass ropes and then made a bundle of SamÆs pack save air and water bottles, tied a bowline on SamÆs
uninjured foot, using the manila line and secured the bundle to the end of that line. He planned to drag Sam out first, then the equipment. Finished, he bound on skis.
Bruce touched helmets. ôThis is it, pal. Keep the line clear of the sand.ö
Sam grabbed his arm. ôWait a minute.ö
ôWhatÆs the matter?ö
ôBruceùif we donÆt make it, I just want to say that youÆre all right.ö
ôUh . . . oh, forget it. WeÆll make it.ö He started up. A herringbone step suited the convex approach to the hole. As Bruce neared the opening he shifted to side-step to fit the narrow passage and the concave shape of the morning glory above. He inched up, transferring his weight smoothly and gradually, and not remaining in one spot too long. At last his head, then his whole body, were in sunshine; he was starting up the morning glory itself.
He stopped, uncertain what to do. There was a ridge above him, where the flakes had broken loose when he had shoveled away their support. The break was much too steep to climb, obviously unstable. He paused only a moment as he could feel his skis sinking in; he went forward in half side-step, intending to traverse past the unstable formation.
The tow line defeated him. When Bruce moved sideways, the line had to turn a corner at the neck of the hole. It brushed and then cut into the soft stuff. Bruce felt his skis slipping backwards; with cautious haste he started to climb, tried to ride the slipping mass and keep above it. He struggled as the flakes poured over his skis. Then he was fouled, he went down, it engulfed him.
Again he came to rest in soft, feathery, darkness. He lay quiet, nursing his defeat, before trying to get out. He hardly knew which way was up, much less which way was out. He was struggling experimentally when he felt a tug on his belt. Sam was trying to help him.
A few minutes later, with SamÆs pull to guide him, Bruce was again on the floor of the ca\Æe. The only light came from the torch in SamÆs hand; it was enough to show that the pile choking the hole was bigger than ever.
Sam motioned him over. ôToo bad, Bruce,ö was all he said.
Bruce controlled his choking voice to say, ôIÆll get busy as soon as I catch my breath.ö
ôWhereÆs your left ski?ö
ôHuh? Oh! Must have pulled off. ItÆll show up when I start digging.ö
ôHmmm .. . how much air have you?ö
ôUh?ö Bruce looked at his belt. ôAbout a third of a bottle.ö
ôIÆm breathing my socks. IÆve got to change.ö
ôRight away!ö Bruce started to make the switch; Sam pulled him down again.
ôYou take the fresh bottle, and give me your bottle.ö
ôButùö
ôNo æbutsÆ about it,ö Sam cut him off. ôYou have to do all the work; youÆve got to take the full tank.ö
Silently Bruce obeyed. His mind was busy with arithmetic. The answer always came out the same; he knew with certainty that there was not enough air left to permit him again to perform the Herculean task of moving that mountain of dust.
He began to believe that they would never get out. The knowledge wearied him; he wanted to lie down beside the still form of Abner Green and, like him, not struggle at the end.
However he could not. He knew that, for SamÆs sake, he would have to shovel away at that endless sea of sand, until he dropped from lack of oxygen. Listlessly he took off his remaining ski and walked toward his task.
Sam jerked on the rope.
Bruce went back. ôWhatÆs got into you, kid?ö Sam demanded.
ôNothing. Why?ö
ôItÆs got you whipped.ö
ôI didnÆt say so.ö
ôBut you think so. I could see it. Now you listen! You convinced me that you could get us outùand, by Jimmy! youÆre going to! YouÆre just cocky enough to be the first guy to whip a morning glory and you can do it. Get your chin up!ö
Bruce hesitated. ôLook, Sam, I wonÆt quit on you, but you might as well know the truth: there isnÆt air enough to do it again.ö
ôFigured that out when I saw the stuff start to crumble.
ôYou knew? Then if you know any prayers, better say them.ö
Sam shook his arm. ôItÆs not time to pray; itÆs time to get busy.ö
ôOkay.ö Bruce started to straighten up.
ôThatÆs not what I meant.ö
ôHuh?ö
ôThereÆs no point in digging. Once was worth trying; twice is wasting oxygen.ö
ôWell, what do you want me to do?ö
ôYou didnÆt try all the ways out, did you?ö
ôNo.ö Bruce thought about it. ôIÆll try again, Sam. But there isnÆt air enough to try them all.ö
ôYou can search longer than you can shovel. But donÆt search haphazardly; search back toward the hills. Anywhere else will be just another morning glory; we need to come out at the hills; away from the sand.
ôUh. . . look, Sam, where are the hills? Down here you canÆt tell north from next week.ö
ôOver that way,ö Sam pointed.
ôHuh? How do you know?ö
ôYou showed me. When you broke through I could tell where the Sun was from the angle of the light.ö
ôBut the Sun is overhead.ö
ôWas when we started. Now itÆs fifteen, twenty de
grees to the west. Now listen: these caves must have been big blow holes once, gas pockets. You search off in that direction and find us a blow hole thatÆs not choked with sand.ö
ôIÆll do my darndest!ö
ôHow far away were the hills when we got caught?ö
Bruce tried to remember. ôHalf a mile, maybe.ö
ôCheck. You wonÆt find what we want tied to me with five or six hundred feet of line. Take that pad of paper in my pouch. Blaze your wayùand be darn sure you blaze enough!ö
ææI will!ÆÆ
ôAttaboy! Good luck.ö
Bruce stood up.
It was the same tedious, depressing business as before. Bruce stretched the line, then set out at the end of it, dropping bits of paper and counting his steps. Several times he was sure that he was under the hills, only to come to an impasse. Twice he skirted the heaps that marked other morning glorys. Each time he retraced his steps he gathered up his blazes, both to save paper and to keep from confusing himself.
Once, he saw a glimmer of light and his heart poundedùbut it filtered down from a hole too difficult even for himself and utterly impossible for Sam.
His air got low; he paid no attention, other than to adjust his mix to keep it barely in the white. He went on searching.
A passage led to the left, then down; he began to doubt the wisdom of going further and stopped to check the darkness. At first his eyes saw nothing, then it seemed as if there might be a suggestion of light ahead. Eye fatigue? Possibly. He went another hundred feet and tried again. It was light!
Minutes later he shoved his shoulders up through a twisted hole and gazed out over the burning plain.
ôHi!ö Sam greeted him. ôI thought you had fallen down a hole.
ôDarn near did. Sam, I found it!ö
ôKnew you would. LetÆs get going.ö
ôRight. IÆll dig out my other ski.ö
ôNope.ö
ôWhy not?ö
ôLook at your air gauge. We arenÆt going anywhere on skis.ö
ôHuh? Yeah, I guess not.ö They abandoned their loads, except for air and water bottles. The dark trek was made piggy-back, where the ceiling permitted. Some places Bruce half dragged his partner. Other places they threaded on hands and knees with Sam pulling his bad leg painfully behind him.
Bruce climbed out first, having slung Sam in a bowline before he did so. Sam gave little help in getting out; once they were above ground Bruce picked him up and set him against a rock. He then touched helmets. ôThere, fellow! We made it!ö
Sam did not answer.
Bruce peered in; SamÆs features were slack, eyes half closed. A check of his belt told why; the blood-oxygen indicator showed red.
SamÆs intake valve was already wide open; Bruce moved fast, giving himself a quick shot of air, then transferring his bottle to Sam. He opened it wide.
He could see SamÆs pointer crawl up even as his own dropped toward the red. Bruce had air in his suit for three or four minutes if he held still.
He did not hold still. He hooked his intake hose to the manifold of the single bottle now attached to SamÆs suit and opened his valve. His own indicator stopped dropping toward the red. They were Siamese twins now, linked by one partly-exhausted bottle of utterly necessary gas. Bruce put an arm around Sam, settled SamÆs head on his shoulder, helmet to helmet, and throttled down both valves until each was barely in the white. He gave Sam more margin than himself, then settled down to wait. The rock under them was in shadow, though the Sun still baked the plain. Bruce
looked out, searching for anyone or anything, then extended his aerial. ôMÆaidez!ö he called. ôHelp us! WeÆre lost.ö
He could hear Sam muttering. ôMay day!ö Sam echoed into his dead radio. ôMay day! WeÆre lost.ö
Bruce cradled the delirious boy in his arm and repeated again, ôMÆaidez! Get a bearing on us.ö He paused, then echoed, ôMay day! May day!ö
After a while he readjusted the valves, then went back to repeating endlessly, ôMay day! Get a bearing on us.ö
He did not feel it when a hand clasped his shoulder. He was still muttering ôMay day!ö when they dumped him into the air lock of the desert car.
Mr. Andrews visited him in the infirmary at Base Camp. ôHow are you, Bruce?ö
ôMe? IÆm all right, sir. I wish theyÆd let me get up.ö
ôMy instructions. So IÆll know where you are.ö The Scoutmaster smiled; Bruce blushed.
ôHowÆs Sam?ö he asked.
ôHeÆll get by. Cold burns and a knee that will bother him a while. ThatÆs all.ö
ôGee, IÆm glad.ö
ôThe troop is leaving. IÆm turning you over to Troop Three, Mr. Harkness. Sam will go back with the grub car.
ôUh, I think I could travel with the Troop, sir.ö
ôPerhaps so, but I want you to stay with Troop Three. You need field experience.ö
ôUhùö Bruce hesitated, wondering how to say it. ôMr. Andrews?ö
ôYes?ö
ôI might as well go back. IÆve learned something. You were right. A fellow canÆt get to be an old Moon hand in three weeks. Uh . . . I guess I was just conceited.ö
ôIs that all?ö
ôWellùyes, sir.ö
ôVery well, listen to me. IÆve talked with Sam and with Mr. Harkness. Mr. Harkness will put you through a course of sprouts; Sam and I will take over when you get back. You plan on being ready for the Court of Honor two weeks from Wednesday.ö The Scoutmaster added, ôWell?ö
