‘There seems to me very little doubt that most people here have a pretty accurate idea of your scale of values, Michael. It would not be news to you, I suppose, that with the exception of three or four - and the Astronomical Section which is starry-eyed, anyway - almost nobody shares them?’
‘It would not,’ he said. ‘It has not been, for years; but it is only lately that it has become a matter of uncomfortable importance. Even so, millions of people can be wrong - and often have been.’
She nodded, and went on, equably:
‘Well, suppose we take a look at it from their point of view. All the people here volunteered, and were posted here as a garrison. They did not, and they do not, consider it primarily as a jumping-off place - though I suppose some of them think it may become that one day - now, at this moment, they are seeing it as what it was established to be - a Bombardment Station: a strategic position from which a missile can be placed within a five-mile circle drawn anywhere on Earth. That, they say, and quite truly say, is the reason for the station’s existence; and the purpose for which it is equipped. It was built - just as the other Moon Stations were built - to be a threat. It was hoped that they would never be used, simply because the knowledge of their existence would be an incentive to keep the peace.
‘Well, that hope has been wiped out. God knows who, or what, really started this war, but it has come. And what happened? The Russian Station launched a salvo of missiles. The American Station began pumping out a systematic bombardment. The moon, in fact, went into action. But what part did the British Station play in this action? It sent off just three medium-weight missiles!
‘The American Station spotted that Russian freighter-rocket coming in, and got it, with a light missile. The Russian Station - and, by the look of it, one of the Russian Satellites - thereupon hammered the American Station, which erupted missiles for a time, both local and earthward-bound, and then suddenly went quiet. The Russian Station kept on sending missiles at intervals for a time, then it, too, went quiet.
‘And what were we doing while all this was going on? We were sending off three more medium-sized missiles. And since the Russian Station stopped, we have contributed another three.
‘Nine medium-sized missiles! Our total part in the war, to date!
‘Meanwhile, the real war goes on up there. And what’s happening in it? Nobody knows. One minute’s news is corrected, or denied, a few minutes later. There’s propaganda to hearten, propaganda to dishearten; there’s wishful thinking, obvious lying, clever lying, incoherence, and hysteria. There may even be a few grains of truth somewhere, but nobody knows which they are.
‘All we do know for sure is that the two greatest powers there have ever been are out to destroy one another with every weapon they possess. Hundreds of cities and towns must have vanished, and all the people in them. Whole continents are being scorched and ruined.
‘Is either side winning? Can either side win? Will there be anything left? What has happened to our own country, and our homes? We don’t know!
‘And we do nothing! We just sit out here, and look at the Earth, all calm and pearly-blue, and wonder hour after hour - day after day, now - what horrors are going on under the clouds. Thinking about our families and friends, and what may have happened to them....
‘The wonder to me is that so few of us, as yet, have cracked up. But I warn you, professionally, that if things go on like this, more of us will before long...
‘Of course the men brood, and become more desperate and rebellious as it goes on. Of course they ask themselves what we are here for at all, if not to be used. Why have we not fired our big missiles? Perhaps they would not count a great deal in the scale of things, but they’d be something: we’d be doing what we can. They were the reason we were sent here - so why haven’t we fired them? Why didn’t we fire them at the beginning, when they would have had most effect? The other stations did. Why have we still not fired them, even now? Can you tell us that?’
She ended, looking at him steadily. He looked back at her, just as steadily.
‘I don’t plan strategy,’ he said. ‘It is not my job to understand top-level decisions. I am here to carry out the orders I receive.’
‘A very proper reply, Station-Commander,’ commented the doctor, and went on waiting. He did not amplify, and she found the continuation thrown back on her.
‘They tell me,’ she observed, ‘that we have something like seventy major missiles, with atomic war-heads. It has frequently been pointed out that the earlier the big blows fall, the-more effective they are in destroying the enemy’s potential - and in preventing retaliation. The aim, in fact, is the quick knock-out. But there our missiles still rest - unused even now.’
‘Their use,’ Troon pointed out again, ‘is not for us here to decide. It is possible that the first intercontinental missiles did what was required - in which case it would simply be waste to launch these. It is not impossible, either, that if they are held in reserve there could be a point when our ability to continue the bombardment might be decisive.’ She shook her head.
‘If the strategic targets have been destroyed, what is there left for decisive bombardment? These aren’t weapons for use against armies in the field. What is worrying our personnel is, why weren’t our weapons used - on the right kind of targets, at the right time?’
Troon shrugged.
‘This is a pointless discussion, Ellen. Even if we were able to fire without orders, what should we aim at? We’ve no idea which targets have been destroyed, or which are only damaged. Indeed, for all we know, some of the target areas may now be occupied by our own people. If we had been needed, we should have had the orders.’
The doctor remained quiet for a full half minute, making up her mind. Then she said, forthrightly:
‘I think you had better understand this, Michael. If there is not some use made of these missiles very soon, or if there is not some intelligible statement about them from H.Q., you are going to have a mutiny on your hands.’
The Commander sat quite still on the corner of the desk, looking not at her, but towards the window. Presently:
‘As bad as that?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Michael. About as bad as it can be, short of open rebellion.’
‘Hm. I wonder what they think they’ll get out of that.’
‘They aren’t thinking much at all. They’re worried sick, frustrated, feeling desperate, and needing some kind - any kind - of action to relieve the tension.’
‘So they’d like to unhorse me, and poop off major atomic missiles, just for the hell of it.’
She shook her head, looking at him unhappily.
‘It’s not exactly that, Michael. It’s - oh dear, this is difficult - it’s because a rumour has got round that they should have been sent off.’
She watched him as the implication came home. At length, he said, with icy calmness:
‘I see. I am supposed to have the other Nelson touch - the blind eye?’
‘Some of them say so. A lot of the rest are beginning to wonder.’
‘There has to be a reason. Even a Command Officer must be supposed to have a motive for dereliction of duty amounting to high treason.’
‘Of course, Michael.’
‘Well, I’d better have it. What is it?’
Ellen took a deep breath.
‘It’s this. So long as we don’t send those missiles we may be safe: once we do start sending them we’ll probably bring down retaliation, either from the Russian Station, if it still exists, or from one of their satellites. Our nine medium missiles haven’t been a serious matter - not serious enough to justify them into provoking us to use our heavies. But, if we do start to use the major ones, it will almost certainly mean the end of this station. Your own view of the primary importance of the station is well known - you admitted it to me just now.... So, you see, a motive can be made to appear...
‘The American Station has almost certainly gone; possibly the Russian, too. If we go as well, ther
e will no longer be anyone on what you called the “threshold of the universe”. But, if we were able somehow to ride out the war, we should be in sole possession of the moon, and still on the threshold ... Shouldn’t we?’
‘Yes. You make the motive quite uncomfortably clear,’ he told her. ‘But an ambition is not necessarily an obsession, you know.’
‘This is a closed community, in a high state of nervous tension.’
He thought for some moments, then:
‘Can you predict? Will it produce a revolution, or a mass-rising?’ he asked her.
‘A revolution,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘Your officers will arrest you, once they have plucked up the courage. That could take a day or two yet. It is a pretty grim step - especially when the C.O. happens to be a popular figure, too....’ She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I must think,’ he said.
He went round behind the desk and sat down, resting his elbows on it. The room became as quiet as the construction of the station permitted while he considered behind closed eyes. After several minutes he opened them.
‘If they should arrest me,’ he said, ‘their next move must be to search the message files: (a) to justify themselves by finding evidence against me, and (b) to find out what the orders were, and whether they can still be carried out.
‘When they discover that, except for three sets of three medium missiles, no launching orders have been received, there will be a panic. Such of my officers as may have been persuaded into this will be utterly shattered - you can’t just apologize to your C.O. for arresting him as a traitor, and expect it to be left at that.
‘There will be just one hope left, so someone more decisive than the rest will radio H.Q. that I have had a breakdown, or something of the kind, and request a repeat of all launching orders. When that brings nothing but a repetition of the same three sets of three, they’ll be really sunk.
‘Then, I should think, there will be a split. Some of them will have cold feet, and be for taking the consequences before matters get even worse; a number of men are bound to say “in for a penny, in for a pound”, and want to launch the missiles anyway. Some will have swung back, and argue that if H.Q. wanted launchings they would have said so - so why risk a further act of wanton insubordination which will probably bring enemy reprisals, anyway.
‘Even if good sense and cold feet were to win, and I should be released, I should have lost much of my authority and prestige, and there would be a very, very sticky situation all the way round.
‘On the whole, I think it would be easier for everyone if I were to swallow my pride and discourage my arrest by anticipating their second move.’
He paused, contemplating the doctor.
‘As you know, Ellen, it is not a habit of mine to reflect aloud in this manner. But I think it would do no harm if some idea of the probable results of my arrest were to filter round. Don’t you agree?’
She nodded, without speaking. He got up from the desk.
‘I shall now send for Sub-Commander Reeves - and I think we will have Sub-Commander Calmore as well - and explain to them with as little loss of face as possible that, the chances of war being what they are, and the chances of leakage now being nil, I am lifting security on messages received. This is being done in order that all senior officers may fully acquaint themselves with the situation, in readiness for any emergency.
‘This should have enough deflationary effect to stop them from making that particular kind of fool of themselves, don’t you think?’
‘But won’t they just say that you must have destroyed the relevant messages?’ she objected.
‘Oh, that one wouldn’t do. There’s service procedure. They will be able to compare my file with the Codes Section’s files, and that with the Radio Section’s log-book, and they’ll find they all tie up.’
She went on studying him.
‘I still don’t understand why our missiles have not been launched,’ she said.
‘No? Well, perhaps all will be revealed to us one day. In the meantime - suppose we just go on obeying our orders. It’s really much simpler.
‘But I am extremely grateful to you, Ellen. I had not thought it had got so far, yet. Let’s hope that tomorrow will show, if not a great change of feeling, at least a less awkward choice of scapegoat. And now, if you will excuse me, I will send for those two.’
As the door closed behind her, he continued to stare at it for fully a minute. Then he flipped over a switch, and requested the presence of his sub-commanders.
With the interview over, Troon allowed a few minutes for the officers to get clear. They had gone off looking a little winded, one carrying the message file, the other his signed authority of access to the code files, in a bemused way. Then, feeling the need for a change, he, too, left his room and made his way to the entrance-port. In the dressing- room the man on duty jumped to his feet and saluted.
‘Carry on, Hughes,’ Troon told him. ‘I’m going outside for an hour or so.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the man. He sat down and resumed work on the suit he was servicing.
Troon lifted his own scarlet pressure suit from its pegs, and inspected it carefully. Satisfied, he shed his uniform jacket and trousers, and got into it. He carried out the routine checks and test; finally, he switched on the radio, and got an acknowledgement from the girl at the main instrument desk. He told her that he would be available for urgent calls only. When he spoke again his voice reached the duty man from a loudspeaker on the wall. The man got up, and moved to the door of the smaller, two-man airlock.
‘An hour, you said, sir?’ he inquired.
‘Make it an hour and ten minutes,’ Troon told him.
‘Yes, sir.’ The man set the hand of the reminder-dial seventy minutes ahead of the clock. If the Station-Commander had not returned, or had failed to notify an extension by then, the rescue squad would automatically be summoned.
The duty man operated the lock, and presently Troon was outside; a vivid splash of colour in the monochrome landscape, the only moving thing in the whole wilderness. He set off southward with the curious, lilting moon-step which long service had made second nature.
At half a mile or so he paused, and made a show of inspecting one or two of the missile-pits there. They were, as they were intended to be, almost invisible. The top of each shaft had a cover of stiff fibre which matched the colour of the ground about it. A scatter of sand and stones on top made it difficult to detect, even at a few yards. He pottered from one to another for a few minutes, and then stood looking back at the station.
It was dwarfed and made toy-like by the mountains behind it. The radar and radio towers, and the sun-bowls looking like huge artificial flowers on the top of their masts, gave a rough scale; but for them it would have been difficult to judge whether the station itself was the size of a half-inflated balloon, or half a puff-ball. It was hard to appreciate that the main body was a hundred and twenty yards in diameter at ground level until one looked at the corridors connecting it with the smaller storage-domes, and remembered that the roofs of those corridors were four feet above one’s head.
Troon continued to regard it for some moments, then he turned round, pursued a zigzag course between the missile-pits, and when he was hidden from the station by a rocky outcrop, sat down. There he leaned back and, in such modified comfort as the suit allowed, contemplated the prospect dominated by the bright segment of Earth - and also the shape of the future in a world ruined by war.
All his life - and, for the matter of that, all his father’s life, too - the possibility of such a war had lurked in the background. Sometimes it had seemed imminent, but there had been rapprochements; then again, it had seemed inevitable, but in one way or another it had been avoided. Again and again the tensions had increased and relaxed. There had been conferences, concessions, compromises, bluffs, crises, and occasional panic moves, but through them all the taper had somehow been kept at a safe distance from the touch-hole.
Three ye
ars ago, when he had once more, and certainly for the last time, managed to stave off ‘grounding’, he had felt an increased sense of imminence. It was difficult to be sure that the placidity of his spells on the moon did not give a distorted impression that life at home was becoming more febrile and exhausting each leave, but of one thing he was convinced - he had no intention of spending his retirement in one of the regions that grew tense with the jitters two or three times every year.
It was for that reason he had sold his house - the house that had been presented to his mother in tribute to the memory of his father - and moved his family four thousand miles to a new home in Jamaica.
Ridding himself of the house had been satisfactory in another way, too, for to him it had symbolized the superhuman obligation of living up to his father’s legendary reputation; it had been a solidification of the shadows that his father had unwittingly cast over him since he was twelve years old.
Looking back on his life, it was only those years before he was twelve that appeared sunlit and halcyon. He, his mother, and his grandfather had then lived quietly and happily in a roomy cottage. They had their friends and neighbours; he had his own school friends in the village; beyond that small circle they had been, except for his grandfather’s reputation as a classical scholar, unnoticed and unknown. And then, in the September of his thirteenth year, had come the break-up.
A man called Tallence had somehow stumbled across the story of Ticker Troon and the missile, and had applied to the authorities for the lifting of the security ban. After twelve years there was no good reason for silence - and, indeed, had been none for some time. Four Satellite Stations had for several years been known to be in position - the British one, two fair-sized Russian ones, and the huge American one. The existence of space-mines was no longer a secret, nor was the fact that all the stations now carried means to combat them. Tallence, therefore, had managed to carry his point and, presently, to produce his book.
It was a good book, and the publishers spared nothing on the publicity that launched it; the conveniently timed citation of a posthumous V.C. for Ticker Troon helped, too; and the book went straight into the epic class. It sold by the hundred thousand; it was seized upon by translators at once, and went into all languages save those allied with the Intransigent Sixth, where it was believed that the space-station was a Soviet invention. It was filmed, televised, digested, and strip-treated until, a year later, there was scarcely a man, woman, or child outside the Soviet Empire who did not know of Ticker Troon and his exploit.