"I never
knew a boy from Earth who wasn't cocky."
Mr. Andrews frowned at his Senior Patrol Leader.
"That's 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?"
Sam reluctantly produced a clipping. "This, I
guess."
It was from the Colorado Scouting News and read:
"Troop 48, Denver—LOCAL SCOUT SEEKS SKY-HIGH HONOR. Bruce
Hollifield, Eagle Scout, is moving with his family to South Pole, Venus. Those
who know Bruce—and who doesn't—expect 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
Pike's Peak space port. Cornered, Bruce admitted that he hopes to pass the
tests for Eagle Scout (Luna) while on the Moon.
"If he does—and we're betting on
Bruce!—he's a dead cinch to become the first Triple Eagle in history.
"Go to it, Bruce! Denver is proud of you.
Show those Moon Scouts what real Scouting is like."
Mr. Andrews looked up. "Where did this come
from?"
"Uh, somebody sent it to Peewee."
"Well, we all read it and when Bruce came in,
the fellows ribbed him. He got sore."
"Uh . . . well, I was
doing it myself."
"Humph! Sam, this item is no sillier than the
stuff our own Scribe turns in for publication. Bruce didn't write it, and you
yahoos had no business making his life miserable. Send him in. Meantime call
the roll."
"What's your opinion? Can this kid
possibly qualify for lunar Eagle in three weeks?"
"No—and I've told him so. But he's durn
well going to have his chance. Which reminds me: you're his instructor."
"You. You've let me down, Sam; this is your
chance to correct it. Understand me?"
Sam swallowed. "I guess I do."
Sam found the boy from Earth standing alone,
pretending to study the bulletin board. Sam touched his arm. "The Skipper
wants you."
Bruce whirled around, then stalked away. Sam
shrugged and shouted, "Rocket Patrol—fall in!"
Speedy Owens echoed, "Crescent
Patrol—fall in!" As muster ended Mr. Andrews came out of his office,
followed by Bruce. The Earth Scout seemed considerably chastened.
"Mr. Andrews says I'm to report to you."
"That's right." They eyed each other
cautiously. Sam said, "Look, Bruce—let's start from scratch."
"Fine. Just tag along with me." At a
sign from the Scoutmaster Sam shouted, "By twos! Follow me." 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 piles—packaged 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.
"We've got to outfit him, Chubby."
"That new G.E. job might fit him."
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.
Bruce's 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. "How's that?" asked Sam.
"The collar cuts my shoulders."
"It won't under pressure. If we leave slack,
your head will pull out of the helmet like a cork." Sam strapped the air,
water, radio, and duffel-rack backpack to Bruce's shoulders. "Pressure
check, Chubby."
"We'll dress first." 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
Bruce's walkie-talkie, clipped a blood-oxygen indicator to Bruce's ear, and
locked his helmet on. "Stand by for pressure," he said, his words
echoing in Bruce's helmet. Chubby hooked hose from a wall gauge to Bruce's 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. "Pressure steady, sir," Chubby reported.
Sam hooked up Bruce's air supply. "Open your
intake and kick your chin valve before you smother," he ordered. Bruce
complied. The stale air rushed out and the helmet cleared. Sam adjusted Bruce's
valves. "Watch that needle," he ordered, pointing to the blood-oxygen
dial on Bruce's belt. "Keep your mix so that reads steady in the white
without using your chin valve."
"So I'll say it again. Keep that needle out
of the red, or you'll explain it to Saint Peter."
The Scoutmaster asked, "What load are you
giving him?"
"Oh," replied Sam, "just enough to
steady him—say three hundred pounds, total."
Bruce figured—at one-sixth gravity that
meant fifty pounds weight including himself, his suit, and his pack. "I'll
carry my full share," he objected.
"We'll decide what's best for you," the
Scoutmaster snapped. "Hurry up; the troop is ready." He left.
Sam switched off his radio and touched helmets.
"Forget it," he said quietly. "The Old Man is edgy at the start
of a hike." They loaded Bruce rapidly—reserve air and water bottles,
a carton of grub, short, wide skis and ski poles—then hung him with field
gear, first-aid kit, prospector's hammer, two climbing ropes, a pouch of pitons
and snap rings, flashlight, knife. The Moon Scouts loaded up; Sam called,
"Come on!"
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.
"Route march!" the Scoutmaster's voice
rang in his helmet. "Heel and toe. Jack Wills out as pathfinder." 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.
"Speedy will help you," he told Sam, "until Bruce gets his legs.
Move him along. We can't heel-and-toe and still make our mileage."
"Even if we have to carry him," added
Speedy.
The Scoutmaster overtook the troop in long leaps.
Bruce wanted to follow. It looked easy—like 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. "Here we go," Sam warned.
"Feet on the ground and try to swing in with us."
Bruce started off confidently. He felt that three
days of low gravity in the corridors of Luna City had given him his
"legs"; being taught to walk, like a baby, was just hazing.
Nothing to it—he 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. "Wha' happened?" he demanded, as they righted him.
"Keep your feet on the ground."
"I know what you're up against," added
Speedy, "I've been to Earth. Your mass and weight don't match and your
muscles aren't used to it. You weigh what a baby weighs, Earth-side, but you've
got the momentum of a fat man."
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, "Think you're ready for
a slow lope?"
"Okay—but remember, if you want to
turn, you've got to slow down first—or you'll roll like a hoop.
Okay, Speedy. An eight-miler."
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.
"Wups!" Sam steadied him. "Get your
feet out in front."
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. "Sam," he said, "do you
suppose I can get along by myself?"
"Shouldn't wonder. We let go a couple o'
miles back."
"Huh?" It was true; Bruce began to feel
like a Moon hand.
Somewhat later a boy's voice called "Heel and
toe!" 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. "Jee . . . miny Crickets!"
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. "Fifteen o'clock."
Bruce tried to read the time but was stumped by
the fact that the sunrise line ran mostly across ocean. He questioned Sam.
"Huh? See that bright dot on the dark side? That's Honolulu—figure
from there."
Bruce mulled this over while binding his skis,
then stood up and turned around, without tripping. "Hmmm—" said
Sam, "you're used to skis."
"Well, this is different. Just shuffle along
and try to keep your feet."
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 air—yet 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
Scoutmaster's voice prodded him. "Bruce! Keep moving!"
Much later Speedy's voice called out, "Hard
ground!" Shortly the column reached it and stopped to remove skis. Bruce
switched off his radio and touched his helmet to Sam's.
"What was that back where the Skipper yelled
at me?"
"That? That was a morning glory. They're
poison!"
"Sort 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 stay—until your air gives out. Lot of prospectors
die that way. They go out alone and are likely to come back in the dark."
"How do you know what happens if they go out
alone?"
"Suppose you saw tracks leading up to one and
no tracks going away?"
The troop swung into a lope; slowly the hills drew
closer and loomed high into the sky. Mr. Andrews called a halt.
"Camp," he said. "Sam, 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 Scoutmaster's
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.
"Testing," he said.
Bruce could hear the answer, relayed through Sam's
radio. "Ready to inflate."
"Okay." The bag surged up, filling the
frame. Sam said, "You go on, Bruce. There's nothing left but to adjust the
shade."
"Okay." The shade was a flimsy Venetian
blind, stretched over the shelter. Sam half-opened the slats. "It's cold
inside," he commented, "from expanding gas. But it warms up
fast." Presently, coached by phone, he closed them a bit. "Go
inside," he urged Bruce. "It may be half an hour before I get the
temperature steady."
"Maybe I should," admitted Bruce.
"I feel dizzy."
"You've held still in the Sun too long.
Doesn't give the air a chance to circulate. Here." Sam opened Bruce's
supply valve wider; "Go inside."
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.
"Hi, Bruce! Siddown—chow in two shakes."
Two Scouts made room for Bruce and he sat. One of
them said, "Y'ever been at Yale?" Bruce had not. "That's where
I'm going," the Scout confided. "My brother's there now." 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.
* * *
"Hollifield!" Bruce snapped awake.
"Let's try you on first aid."
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. "That'll
do," the Scoutmaster concluded. "One thing: What do you do if a man
cracks his helmet?"
Bruce was puzzled. "Why," he blurted,
"you bury him."
"Check," the Scoutmaster agreed.
"So be careful. Okay, sports—six hours of sleep. Sam, set the
watch."
Sam assigned six boys, including himself. Bruce
asked, "Shouldn't I take a watch?"
Mr. Andrews intervened. "No. And take
yourself off, Sam. You'll take Bruce on his two-man hike tomorrow; you'll need
your sleep."
"Okay, Skipper." He added to Bruce,
"There's nothing to it. I'll show you." 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.
"The kid on watch makes sure the oxygen
replacement is okay," Sam went on. "If anything went wrong, he'd wake
us and we'd scramble into suits."
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: "Day is done . . . . . Gone
the Sun . . ."
It seemed odd to hear Taps when the Sun was
still overhead. They couldn't 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. He'd ask Sam. Sam wasn't a bad
guy—a little bit know-it-all. Odd to sleep on a bare floor, too—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, "Heel and toe!" 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 Bruce's suit.
The Scoutmaster inspected them at the lock.
"Where to, Sam?"
"We'll head southeast. I'll blaze it."
"Hmm—rough country. Well, back by
midnight, and stay out of caves."
Outside Sam sighed, "Whew! I thought he was
going to say not to climb."
"I'll do the hard part, anyhow. Let's
go."
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. "Swell of you to do this, Sam."
"Nuts. If I weren't here, I'd be helping to
seal the gymnasium."
"Just the same, I need this hike for my
Mooncraft badge."
Sam let several strides pass. "Look,
Bruce—you don't really expect to make Lunar Eagle?"
"Why not? I've got my optional badges. There
are only four required ones that are terribly different: camping, Mooncraft,
pathfinding, and pioneering. I've studied like the dickens and now I'm getting
experience."
"I don't doubt you've studied. But the Review
Board are tough eggs. You've got to be a real Moon hand to get by."
"They won't pass a Scout from Earth?"
"Put it this way. The badges you need add up
to one thing, Mooncraft. The examiners are old Moon hands; you won't get by
with book answers. They'll know how long you've been here and they'll know you
don't know enough."
Bruce thought about it. "It's not fair!"
Sam snorted. "Mooncraft isn't a game; it's
the real thing. 'Did you stay alive?' If you make a mistake, you
flunk—and they bury you."
Presently they came to hills; Sam stopped and
called Base Camp. "Parsons and Hollifield, Troop One—please take a
bearing."
Shortly Base replied, "One one eight. What's
your mark?"
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.
"Now we start up."
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. "We're going up that?"
"Sure. Watch your Uncle Samuel." 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, "Off belay!"
Bruce unlinked the line; it snaked up the cliff.
Presently Sam shouted, "On belay!"
Bruce answered, "Testing," and tried
unsuccessfully to jerk down the line Sam had lowered.
"Climbing." One-sixth gravity, Bruce
decided, was a mountaineer's heaven. He paused on the way up only to unsnap the
safety line.
Bruce wanted to "leapfrog" 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. "Where to?" asked Bruce.
Sam studied the stars, then pointed southeast.
"The photomaps show open country that way."
"Suits me." 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.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Almost seventeen," Sam answered, glancing
up.
"We're supposed to be back by midnight."
"Well," admitted Sam, "I expected
to reach open country before now."
"Certainly not! I've blazed it. But I've
never been here before. I doubt if anyone has."
"Suppose we keep on for half an hour, then
turn back?"
"Fair enough." They continued for at
least that; Sam conceded that it was time to turn.
"Let's try that next rise," urged Bruce.
"Okay." Sam reached the top first.
"Hey, Bruce—we made it!"
Bruce joined him. "Golly!" 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.
"I know where we are," Sam announced.
"That pair shows up on the photos. We slide down here, circle south about
twenty miles, and back to Base. A cinch—how's your air?"
Bruce's bottle showed fair pressure; Sam's 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 "walk" down the cliff, feeding slack as
needed.
He reached a shoulder below Bruce. "Off
rappel!" 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. "Looks
like here we roost."
"Maybe." Sam bent all four lines
together and measured it. Ten feet of line reached the rubble at the base.
Bruce said, "It'll reach, but we have to
leave the lines behind us."
Sam scowled. "Glass lines cost money; they're
from Earth."
Sam searched the cliff face, then drove a piton.
"I'll lower you. When you're halfway, drive two pitons and hang the strap
from one. That'll give me a changeover."
"I'm against it," protested Bruce.
"If we lost our lines," Sam argued,
"we'll never hear the last of it. Go ahead."
Bruce shrugged, snapped on the line and started
down.
Sam stopped him presently. "Halfway. Pick me
a nest."
Bruce walked the face to the right, but found only
smooth wall. He worked back and located a crack. "Here's a crack," he
reported, "but just one. I shouldn't drive two pitons in one crack."
"Spread 'em apart," Sam directed.
"It's good rock."
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. "Lower away!"
In a couple of minutes he was down and unsnapped
the line. "Off belay!" He hurried down the loose rock at the base.
When he reached the edge of it he called, "Sam! This plain is soft
stuff."
"Okay," Sam acknowledged. "Stand
clear." Bruce moved along the cliff about fifty feet and stopped to bind
on skis. Then he shuffled out onto the plain, kick-turned, 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. "What's the matter?" called Bruce.
"It's reached a shackle," said Sam,
"and the pesky thing won't feed through the ring. I'll free it." He
raised himself a foot, then suddenly let what he had gained slip through the
ring above.
To Bruce's amazement Sam leaned out at an
impossible angle. He heard Sam cry "Rock!" before he understood what
had happened—the 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
Sam's 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 cliff—and again he leaned
out crazily. The second piton had let go.
Sam again shouted, "Rock!" 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.
* * *
Bruce fouled his skis and had to pick himself up. He
forced himself to be careful and glided toward the spot.
Sam's 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 hysterical desire to laugh.
Sam did not stir when Bruce tugged at him. Bruce's
skis got in his way; finally he stood astraddle, hauled Sam out. The boy's eyes
were closed, his features slack, but the suit still had pressure.
"Sam," shouted Bruce, "can you hear me?"
Sam's blood-oxygen reading was dangerously in the
red; Bruce opened his intake valve wider—but the reading failed to
improve. He wanted to turn Sam face down, but he had no way of straightening
Sam's 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 Sam's ribs. But he kept at it—swing!
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.
Sam's lips moved but no sound came. Bruce touched
helmets. "What is it, Sam?"
Faintly he heard, "Look out! Rock!"
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 help—fast!
Send up a smoke signal? Fire a gun three times?
Snap out of it, Bruce! You're on the Moon now. He wished that someone would
happen along in a desert car.
He would have to try radio. He wasn't hopeful, as
they had heard nothing even from the cliff. Still, he must try—
He glanced at Sam's blood-oxygen reading, then
climbed the rubble, extended his antenna and tried. "M'aidez!"
he called. "Help! Does anybody hear me?" He tried again.
When he saw Sam move he hurried back. Sam was
sitting up and feeling his left knee. Bruce touched helmets. "Sam, are you
all right?"
"Huh? This leg won't work right."
"How do I know? Turn on your radio."
Bruce pointed. "Don't you remember?"
Sam stared at the cliff. "Uh, I don't know.
Say, this thing hurts like mischief. Where's the rest of the troop?"
Bruce said slowly, "We're out by ourselves,
Sam. Remember?"
Sam frowned. "I guess so. Bruce, we've got to
get out of here! Help me get my skis on."
"Do you think you can ski with that
knee?"
"I've got to." 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 collapsed—and fainted.
Bruce gave him air and noted that the blood-oxygen
reading was still okay. He untangled the ski, straightened out Sam's legs, and
waited. When Sam's eyes fluttered he touched helmets. "Sam, can you
understand me?"
"You can't stay on your feet. I'll carry
you."
"No good. Rig a toboggan." He closed his
eyes.
Bruce laid Sam's 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 catch—so!
Fit the other rods. Remove bindings—the skis made a passable narrow
toboggan.
He removed Sam's pack, switched his bottles around
in front and told him to hold them. "I'm going to move you. Easy,
now!" 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.
Sam's 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,
"I'll tie this to my arm. If you want anything, just jerk."
"Here we go." 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 cliff—nothing 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. "What is it, Sam?"
"I can't stand it. It's too hot." The
boy's face was white and sweat-covered.
Bruce gave him a shot of air, then thought about
it. There was an emergency shelter in Sam's 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 Sam's boots; the other Bruce had
bent and wedged under Sam's shoulders. The contraption looked ready to fall
apart but it held. "There! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Look, Bruce, I think my knee is
all right now. Let me try it."
Bruce felt out the knee through the suit. It was
twice the size of its mate; he could feel Sam wince. He touched helmets.
"You're full of hop, chum. Relax." 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.
"Say, Sam, how can I tell how old they
are?"
"You can't. A track fifty years old looks as
fresh as a new one."
"No point in following these?"
"No harm in it, provided they go in our
direction."
"Roger." 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 "snowplow." 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 caught—in daylight!—by
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 hurt—and he was still breathing. He supposed 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 Sam's helmet. "Sam!
Can you hear me?"
The reply was muffled. "Yeah, Bruce!"
"Okay? Don't be silly! We're in a morning
glory!"
"Yes, I know. Sam, I'm terribly sorry!"
"Well, don't cry about it. It can't be
helped."
"Stow it, can't you!" Sam's voice
concealed panic with anger. "It doesn't matter. We're goners—don't
you realize that?"
"Huh? No, we're not! Sam, I'll get you
out—I swear I will."
Sam waited before replying. "Don't kid
yourself, Bruce. Nobody ever gets out of a morning glory."
"Don't talk like that. We aren't dead
yet."
"No, but we're going to be. I'm trying to get
used to the idea." He paused. "Do me a favor, Bruce—get me
loose from these confounded skis. I don't want to die tied down."
"Right away!" 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 something—his 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. "Hey, Sam! We're in
a cave!"
"Hang on. I'll get you out." 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. "Look! We're getting
somewhere!"
Sam did not answer. Bruce persisted, "Sam,
did you hear me?"
"I heard you. Thanks for pulling me out. Now
untie me, will you?"
"Hold the light." Bruce got busy.
Shortly he was saying, "There you are. Now I'll stir around and find the
way out."
"What makes you think there is a way
out?"
"Huh? Don't talk like that. Who ever heard of
a cave with no exit?"
Sam answered slowly, "He didn't find
one."
"Look." 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. "He didn't make
out so well," Bruce said soberly. "I found these papers in his pouch.
We'll take them with us so we can let his folks know."
"You are an incurable optimist, aren't
you? Well, all right." Sam took them. There were two letters, an old-style
flat photograph of a little girl and a dog, and some other papers. One was a
driver's license for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, dated June 1995 and
signed Abner Green.
Bruce stared. "1995! Gee whiz!"
"I wouldn't count on notifying his
folks."
Bruce changed the subject. "He had one thing
we can use. This." It was a coil of manila rope. "I'll hitch all the
lines together, one end to your belt and one to mine. That'll give me five or
six hundred feet. If you want me, just pull."
"I'll be careful. You'll be all right?"
"Sure. I've got him for company."
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 obstacle, he would wait in
the dark—but no gleam of light ever showed. He went back to Sam after
having covered, he estimated, about 180°.
Sam had crawled up to the heap of fallen dust.
Bruce hurried to him. "Sam, are you all right?"
"Sure. I just moved to a feather bed. That
rock is terribly cold. What did you find?"
"Well, nothing yet," he admitted. He sat
down in the flaky pile and leaned toward Sam. "I'll start again in a
moment."
"How's your air supply?" asked Sam.
"Uh, I'll have to crack my reserve bottle
soon. How's yours?"
"Mine is throttled to the limit. You're doing
all the work; I can save my reserve bottle for you—I think."
Bruce frowned. He wanted to protest, but the
gesture wouldn't make sense. They would have to finish up all even; naturally
he was using much more air than was Sam.
One thing was sure—time was running out.
Finally he said, "Look, Sam—there's no end of those caves and
passages. I couldn't search them all with all the air in Luna City."
"But we know there's a way out right
above us."
"I mean out. See
here—this morning glory thing is built like an hour glass; there's 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."
"Well, if we dug the stuff away we could
clear the hole."
"No, it wouldn't, it would reach a point
where there wasn't enough dust close by to sift down any further—there
would still be a hole."
Sam considered it. "Maybe. But when you tried
to climb up it would collapse back on you. That's the bad part about a morning glory,
Bruce; you can't get a foothold."
"The dickens I can't! If I can't climb a
slope on skis without collapsing it, when I've got my wits about me and am
really trying, why, you can have my reserve air bottle."
Sam chuckled. "Don't be hasty. I might hold
you to it. Anyhow," he added, "I can't climb it."
"Once I get my feet on the level, I'll pull
you out like a cork, even if you're buried. Time's a-wastin'." 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.
"Turn out the light!"
There was no doubt; a glimmer of light filtered
down. Bruce found himself pounding Sam and shouting. He stopped and said,
"Sam, old boy, did I ever say what patrol I'm from?"
"Badger Patrol. Watch me dig!" 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 Sam's pack save air and water
bottles, tied a bowline on Sam's 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. "This is it, pal. Keep
the line clear of the sand."
Sam grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute."
"Bruce—if we don't make it, I just want
to say that you're all right."
"Uh . . . oh, forget it.
We'll make it." 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 Sam's pull to guide him,
Bruce was again on the floor of the cave. The only light came from the torch in
Sam's hand; it was enough to show that the pile choking the hole was bigger
than ever.
Sam motioned him over. "Too bad, Bruce,"
was all he said.
Bruce controlled his choking voice to say,
"I'll get busy as soon as I catch my breath."
"Huh? Oh! Must have pulled off. It'll show up
when I start digging."
"Hmmm . . . how much air
have you?"
"Uh?" Bruce looked at his belt.
"About a third of a bottle."
"I'm breathing my socks. I've got to
change."
"Right away!" Bruce started to make the
switch; Sam pulled him down again.
"You take the fresh bottle, and give me your
bottle."
"No 'buts' about it," Sam cut him off.
"You have to do all the work; you've got to take the full
tank."
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 Sam's
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.
Bruce went back. "What's got into you,
kid?" Sam demanded.
"But you think so. I could see it. Now you
listen! You convinced me that you could get us out—and, by Jiminy! you're
going to! You're just cocky enough to be the first guy to whip a morning glory
and you can do it. Get your chin up!"
Bruce hesitated. "Look, Sam, I won't quit on
you, but you might as well know the truth: there isn't air enough to do it
again."
"Figured that out when I saw the stuff start
to crumble."
"You knew? Then if you know any prayers,
better say them."
Sam shook his arm. "It's not time to pray;
it's time to get busy."
"Okay." Bruce started to straighten up.
"There's no point in digging. Once was worth
trying; twice is wasting oxygen."
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"You didn't try all the ways out, did
you?"
"No." Bruce thought about it. "I'll
try again, Sam. But there isn't air enough to try them all."
"You can search longer than you can shovel.
But don't 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."
"Uh . . . look, Sam,
where are the hills? Down here you can't tell north from next
week."
"You showed me. When you broke through I
could tell where the Sun was from the angle of the light."
"Was when we started. Now it's fifteen,
twenty degrees 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 that's not choked with sand."
"How far away were the hills when we got
caught?"
Bruce tried to remember. "Half a mile,
maybe."
"Check. You won't 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 way—and be darn sure you blaze enough!"
* * *
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
pounded—but 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.
* * *
"Hi!" Sam greeted him. "I thought
you had fallen down a hole."
"Darn near did. Sam, I found it!"
"Knew you would. Let's get going."
"Right. I'll dig out my other ski."
"Look at your air gauge. We aren't going
anywhere on skis."
"Huh? Yeah, I guess not." 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. "There, fellow! We made it!"
Bruce peered in; Sam's features were slack, eyes
half closed. A check of his belt told why; the blood-oxygen indicator showed
red.
Sam's 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 Sam's 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 Sam's 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 Sam's 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. "M'aidez!"
he called. "Help us! We're lost."
He could hear Sam muttering. "May day!"
Sam echoed into his dead radio. "May day! We're lost."
Bruce cradled the delirious boy in his arm and
repeated again, "M'aidez! Get a bearing on us." He paused,
then echoed, "May day! May day!"
After a while he readjusted the valves, then went
back to repeating endlessly, "May day! Get a bearing on us."
He did not feel it when a hand clasped his
shoulder. He was still muttering "May day!" when they dumped him into
the air lock of the desert car.
* * *
Mr. Andrews visited him in the infirmary at Base
Camp. "How are you, Bruce?"
"Me? I'm all right, sir. I wish they'd let me
get up."
"My instructions. So I'll know where you
are." The Scoutmaster smiled; Bruce blushed.
"He'll get by. Cold burns and a knee that
will bother him a while. That's all."
"The troop is leaving. I'm turning you over
to Troop Three, Mr. Harkness. Sam will go back with the grub car."
"Uh, I think I could travel with the Troop,
sir."
"Perhaps so, but I want you to stay with
Troop Three. You need field experience."
"Uh—" Bruce hesitated, wondering
how to say it. "Mr. Andrews?"
"I might as well go back. I've learned
something. You were right. A fellow can't get to be an old Moon hand in three
weeks. Uh . . . I guess I was just conceited."
"Very well, listen to me. I've 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." The Scoutmaster added,
"Well?"