“This is very interesting, Doctor Lawson,” he said at last. “It’s a great pity, though, that you didn’t continue your observations when you took the first photos. Then we might have had something more conclusive.”
Tom bridled instantly at this criticism, despite—or perhaps because of—the fact that it was well-founded.
“If you think that anyone else could have done better—“ he snapped.
“Oh, I’m not suggesting that,” said Lawrence, anxious to keep the peace. “But where do we go from here? The spot you indicate may be fairly small, but its position is uncertain by at least half a kilometer. There may be nothing visible on the surface, even in daylight. Is there any way we can pinpoint it more accurately?”
“There’s one very obvious method. Use this same technique at ground level. Go over the area with an infrared scanner. That will locate any hot spot, even if it’s only a fraction of a degree warmer than its surroundings.”
“A good idea,” said Lawrence. “I’ll see what can be arranged, and will call you back if I need any further information. Thank you very much—Doctor.”
He hung up quickly, and wiped his brow. Then he immediately put through another call to the satellite.
“Lagrange II? Chief Engineer, Earthside, here. Give me the Director, please. . . . Professor Kotelnikov? This is Lawrence. . . . I’m fine, thanks. I’ve been talking to your Doctor Lawson. . . . No, he hasn’t done anything, except nearly make me lose my temper. He’s been looking for our missing dust-cruiser, and he thinks he’s found her. What I’d like to know is—how competent is he?”
In the next five minutes, the Chief Engineer learned a good deal about young Dr. Lawson; rather more, in fact, than he had any right to know, even over a confidential circuit. When Professor Kotelnikov had paused for breath, he interjected sympathetically: “I can understand why you put up with him. Poor kid—I thought orphanages hike that went out with Dickens and the twentieth century. A good thing it did burn down. Do you suppose he set fire to it? No, don’t answer that—you’ve told me he’s a first-class observer, and that’s all I want to know. Thanks a lot. See you down here someday?”
In the next half-hour, Lawrence made a dozen calls to points all over the Moon. At the end of that time, he had accumulated a large amount of information; now he had to act on it.
At Plato Observatory, Father Ferraro thought the idea was perfectly plausible. In fact, he had already suspected that the focus of the quake was under the Sea of Thirst rather than the Mountains of Inaccessibility, but couldn’t prove it because the Sea had such a damping effect on all vibrations. No, a complete set of soundings had never been made; it would be very tedious and time consuming. He’d probed it himself in a few places with telescopic rods, and had always hit bottom at less than forty meters. His guess for the average depth was under ten meters, and it was much shallower round the edges. No, he didn’t have an infrared detector, but the astronomers on Farside might be able to help.
Sorry, no I.R. detector at Dostoevski. Our work is all in the ultraviolet. Try Verne.
Oh yes, we used to do some work in the infrared, a couple of years back—taking spectrograms of giant red stars. But do you know what? There were enough traces of lunar atmosphere to interfere with the readings, so the whole program was shifted out into space. Try Lagrange.
It was at this point that Lawrence called Traffic Control for the shipping schedules from Earth, and found that he was in luck. But the next move would cost a lot of money, and only the Chief Administrator could authorize it.
That was one good thing about Olsen; he never argued with his technical staff over matters that were in their province. He listened carefully to Lawrence’s story, and went straight to the main point.
“If this theory is true,” he said, “there’s a chance that they may still be alive, after all.”
“More than a chance; I’d say it’s quite likely. We know the Sea is shallow, so they can’t be very deep. The pressure on the hull would be fairly low; it may still be intact.”
“So you want this fellow Lawson to help with the search.” The Chief Engineer gave a gesture of resignation. “He’s about the last person I want,” he answered. “But I’m afraid we’ve got to have him.”
CHAPTER NINE
The skipper of the cargo liner Auriga was furious, and so was his crew—but there was nothing they could do about it. Ten hours out from Earth and five hours from the Moon they were ordered to stop at Lagrange, with all the waste of speed and extra computing that implied. And to make matters worse, they were being diverted from Chavius City to that miserable dump Port Roris, practically on the other side of the Moon. The ether crackled with messages canceling dinners and assignations all over the southern hemisphere.
Not far from full, the mottled silver disc of the Moon, its eastern limb wrinkled with easily visible mountains, formed a dazzling background to Lagrange II as Auriga came to rest a hundred kilometers earthward of the station. She was allowed no closer; the interference produced by her equipment, and the glare of her jets, had already affected the sensitive recording instruments on the satellite. Only old-fashioned chemical rockets were permitted to operate in the immediate neighborhood of Lagrange; plasma drives and fusion plants were strictly taboo.
Carrying one small case full of clothing, and one large case full of equipment, Tom Lawson entered the liner twenty minutes after his departure from Lagrange. The shuttle pilot had refused to hurry, despite urgings from Auriga. The new passenger was greeted without warmth as he came aboard; he would have been received quite differently had anyone known his mission. The Chief Administrator, however, had ruled that it should be kept secret for the present; he did not wish to raise false hopes among the relatives of the lost passengers. The Tourist Commissioner had wanted an immediate release, maintaining that it would prove that they were doing their best, but Olsen had said firmly: “Wait until he produces results. Then you can give something to your friends in the news agencies.”
The order was already too late. Aboard Auriga, Maurice Spenser, Bureau Chief of Interphanet News, was on his way to take up his duties in Clavius City. He was not sure if this was a promotion or demotion from Peking, but it would certainly be a change.
Unlike all the other passengers, he was not in the least annoyed by the change of course. The delay was on the firm’s time, and, as an old newsman, he always welcomed the unusual, the break in the established routine. It was certainly odd for a Moon-bound liner to waste several hours and an unimaginable amount of energy to stop at Lagrange, just to pick up a dour-faced young man with a couple of pieces of baggage. And why the diversion from Clavius to Port Roris? “Top-level instructions from Earth,” said the skipper, and seemed to be telling the truth when he disowned all further knowledge. It was a mystery, and mysteries were Spenser’s business. He made one shrewd guess at the reason, and was right—or almost right—the first time.
It must have something to do with that lost dust-cruiser there had been such a fuss about just before he left Earth. This scientist from Lagrange must have some information about her, or must be able to assist in the search. But why the secrecy? Perhaps there was some scandal or mistake that the Lunar Administration was trying to hush up. The simple and wholly creditable reason never occurred to Spenser.
He avoided speaking to Lawson during the remainder of the brief trip, and was amused to note that the few passengers who tried to strike up a conversation were quickly rebuffed. Spenser bided his time, and that time came thirty minutes before landing.
It was hardly an accident that he was sitting next to Lawson when the order came to fasten seat belts for deceleration. With the fifteen Other passengers, they sat in the tiny, blackedout lounge, hooking at the swiftly approaching Moon. Projected on a viewing screen from a lens in the outer hull, the image seemed sharper and more brilliant even than in real life. It was as if they were inside an old-fashioned camera obscura; the arrangement was much safer than having an actual observation win
dow—a structural hazard that spaceship designers fought against tooth and nail.
That dramatically expanding landscape was a glorious and unforgettable sight, yet Spenser could give it only half his attention. He was watching the man beside him, his intense aquiline features barely visible in the reflected light from the screen.
“Isn’t it somewhere down there,” he said, in his most casual tone of voice, “that the boatload of tourists has just been lost?”
“Yes,” said Tom, after a considerable delay.
“I don’t know my way about the Moon. Any idea where they’re supposed to be?”
Even the most uncooperative of men, Spenser had long ago discovered, could seldom resist giving information if you made it seem that they were doing you a favor, and gave them a chance of airing their superior knowledge. The trick worked in nine cases out of ten: it worked now with Tom Lawson.
“They’re down there,” he said, pointing to the center of the screen. “Those are the Mountains of Inaccessibility; that’s the Sea of Thirst all around them.”
Spenser stared, in entirely unsimulated awe, at the sharply etched blacks and whites of the mountains toward which they were falling. He hoped the pilot—human or electronic—knew his job; the ship seemed to be coming in very fast. Then he realized that they were drifting toward the flatter territory on the left of the picture; the mountains and the curious gray area surrounding them were sliding away from the center of the screen.
“Port Roris,” Tom volunteered unexpectedly, pointing to a barely visible black mark on the far left. “That’s where we’re landing.”
“Well! I’d hate to come down in those mountains,” said Spenser, determined to keep the conversation on target. “They’ll never find the poor devils if they’re lost in that wilderness. Anyway, aren’t they supposed to be buried under an avalanche?”
Tom gave a superior laugh.
“They’re supposed to be,” he said.
“Why—isn’t that true?”
A little belatedly, Tom remembered his instructions.
“Can’t tell you anything more,” he replied in that same smug, cocksure voice.
Spenser dropped the subject; he had already learned enough to convince him of one thing. Chavius City would have to wait; he had better hang on at Port Roris for a while.
He was even more certain of this when his envious eyes saw Dr. Tom Lawson cleared through Quarantine, Customs, Immigration, and Exchange Control in three minutes flat.
Had any eavesdropper been listening to the sounds inside Selene, he would have been very puzzled. The cabin was reverberating unmelodioushy to the sound of twenty-one voices, in almost as many keys, singing “Happy Birthday to You.”
When the din had subsided, Commodore Hansteen called out: “Anyone else besides Mrs. Williams who just remembered that it’s his or her birthday? We know, of course, that some ladies like to keep it quiet when they reach a certain age—“
There were no volunteers, but Duncan McKenzie raised his voice above the general laughter.
“There’s a funny thing about birthdays—I used to win bets at parties with it. Knowing that there are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, how large a group of people would you think was needed before you had a fifty-fifty chance that two of them shared the same birthday?”
After a brief pause, while the audience considered the question, someone answered: “Why, half of three hundred and sixty-five, I suppose. Say a hundred and eighty.”
“That’s the obvious answer—and it’s completely wrong. If you have a group of more than twenty-four people, the odds are better than even that two of them have the same birthday.”
“That’s ridiculous! Twenty-four days out of three sixty-five can’t give those odds.”
“Sorry—it does. And if there are more than forty people, nine times out of ten two of them will have the same birthday. There’s a sporting chance that it might work with the twentytwo of us. What about trying it, Commodore?”
“Very well. I’ll go round the room, and ask each one of you for his date of birth.”
“Oh no,” protested McKenzie. “People cheat if you do it that way. The dates must be written down, so that nobody knows anyone else’s birthday.”
An almost blank page from one of the tourist guides was sacrificed for this purpose, and torn up into twenty-two slips. When they were collected and read, to everyone’s astonishment—and McKenzie’s gratification—it turned out that both Pat Harris and Robert Bryan had been born on May 23.
“Pure luck!” said a skeptic, thus igniting a brisk mathematical argument among half a dozen of the male passengers. The ladies were quite uninterested; either because they did not care for mathematics or because they preferred to ignore birthdays.
When the Commodore decided that this had gone on long enough, he rapped for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called. “Let’s get on with the next item on our program. I’m pleased to say that the Entertainment Committee, consisting of Mrs. Schuster and Professor Jaya—er, Professor J.—has come up with an idea that should give us some amusement. They suggest that we set up a court and cross-examine everybody here in turn. The object of the court is to find an answer to this question: Why did we come to the Moon in the first place? Of course, some people may not want to be examined—for all I know, half of you may be on the run from the police, or your wives. You’re at liberty to refuse to give evidence, but don’t blame us if we draw the worst possible conclusions if you do. Well, what do you think of the idea?”
It was received with fair enthusiasm in some quarters and ironic groans of disapproval in others, but since there was no determined opposition, the Commodore went ahead. Almost automatically, he was elected President of the Court; equally automatic was Irving Schuster’s appointment as General Counsel.
The front-right pair of seats had been reversed so that it faced toward the rear of the cruiser. This served as the bench, shared by the President and Counsel. When everyone had settled down, and the Clerk of the Court (viz. Pat Harris) had called for order, the President made a brief address.
“We are not yet engaged in criminal proceedings,” he said, keeping his face straight with some difficulty. “This is purely a court of enquiry. If any witness feels that he is being intimidated by my learned colleague, he can appeal to the Court. Will the Clerk call the first witness?”
“Er—your Honor—who is the first witness?” said the Clerk, reasonably enough.
It took ten minutes of discussion among the Court, learned Counsel, and argumentative members of the public to settle this important point. Finally it was decided to have a ballot, and the first name to be produced was David Barrett’s.
Smiling slightly, the witness came forward and took his stand in the narrow space before the bench.
Irving Schuster, looking and feeling none too legal in undershirt and underpants, cleared his throat impressively.
“Your name is David Barrett?”
“That is correct.”
“Your occupation?”
“Agricultural engineer, retired.”
“Mr. Barrett, will you tell this court exactly why you have come to the Moon.”
“I was curious to see what it was like here and I had the time and money.”
Irving Schuster looked at Barrett obliquely through his thick glasses; he had always found this had an unsettling effect on witnesses. To wear spectacles was almost a sign of eccentricity in this age, but doctors and lawyers—especially the older ones-still patronized them; indeed, they had come to symbolize the legal and medical professions.
“You were ‘curious to see what it was like,’” Schuster quoted. “That’s no explanation. Why were you curious?”
“I am afraid that question is so vaguely worded that I cannot answer it. Why does one do anything?”
Commodore Hansteen relaxed with a smile of pleasure. This was just what he wanted—to get the passengers arguing and talking freely about something that
would be of mutual interest to them all, but would arouse no passions or controversy. (It might do that, of course, but it was up to him to keep order in Court.)
“I admit,” continued Counsel, “that my question might have been more specific. I will try to reframe it.”
He thought for a moment, shuffling his notes. They consisted merely of sheets from one of the tourist guides. He had scribbled a few hines of questioning in the margins, but they were really for effect and reassurance. He had never hiked to stand up in court without something in his hand; there were times when a few seconds of imaginary consultation were priceless.
“Would it be fair to say that ‘you were attracted by the Moon’s scenic beauties?”
“Yes, that was part of the attraction. I had seen the tourist literature and movies, of course, and wondered if the reality would live up to it.”
“And has it done so?”
“I would say,” was the dry answer, “that it has exceeded my expectations.”
There was general laughter from the rest of the company. Commodore Hansteen rapped loudly on the back of his seat.
“Order!” he called. “If there are any disturbances, I shall have to clear the Court!”
This, as he had intended, started a much louder round of laughter, which he let run its natural course. When the mirth had died down, Schuster continued in his most “Where were you on the night of the twenty-second?” tone of voice.
“This is very interesting, Mr. Barrett. You have come all the way to the Moon, at considerable expense, to hook at the view. Tell me-have you ever seen the Grand Canyon?”
“No. Have you?”