A Fall of Moondust

Tom adjusted the instrument for maximum sensitivity, and searched the area where the trail had ended. Perhaps there was some lingering trace that could be picked up even now, some faint smudge of heat that still persisted, strong enough to be detected even in the warmth of the lunar morning. For the sun was still low, and its rays had not yet attained the murderous power they would possess at noon.

Was it imagination? He had the gain turned full up, so that the instrument was on the verge of instability. From time to time, at the very limit of its detecting power, he thought he could see a tiny glimmer of heat, in the exact area where last night's track had ended.

It was all infuriatingly inconclusive—not at all the sort of evidence that a scientist needed, especially when he was going to stick his neck out. If he said nothing, no one would ever know, but all his life he would be haunted by doubts. Yet if he committed himself, he might raise false hopes, become the laughingstock of the solar system, or be accused of seeking personal publicity.

He could not have it both ways; he would have to make a decision. With great reluctance, knowing that he was taking a step from which there could be no turning back, he picked up the Observatory phone.

“Lawson here,” he said. “Get me Luna Central—priority.”

CHAPTER 8

Aboard Selene, breakfast had been adequate but hardly inspiring. There were several complaints from passengers who thought that crackers and compressed meat, a dab of honey and a glass of tepid water, scarcely constituted a good meal. But the Commodore had been adamant. “We don't know how long this has got to last us,” he said, “and I'm afraid we can't have hot meals. There's no way of preparing them, and it's too warm in the cabin already. Sorry, no more tea or coffee. And frankly, it won't do any of us much harm to cut down on the calories for a few days.” That came out before he remembered Mrs. Schuster, and he hoped that she wouldn't take it as a personal affront. Ungirdled after last night's general clothesshedding, she now looked rather like a good-natured hippopotamus, as she lay sprawled over a seat and a half.

“The sun's just risen overhead,” continued Hansteen, “the search parties will be out, and it's only a matter of time before they locate us. It's been suggested that we have a sweepstake on that; Miss Morley, who's keeping the log, will collect your bets.

“Now about our program for the day. Professor Jayawardene, perhaps you'll let us know what the Entertainment Committee has arranged.”

The Professor was a small, birdlike person whose gentle dark eyes seemed much too large for him. It was obvious that he had taken the task of entertainment very seriously, for his delicate brown hand clutched an impressive sheaf of notes.

“As you know,” he said, “my speciality is the theater—but I'm afraid that doesn't help us very much. It would be nice to have a play-reading, and I thought of writing out some parts; unfortunately, we're too short of paper to make that possible. So we'll have to think of something else.

“There's not much reading matter on board, and some of it is rather specialized. But we do have two novels—a university edition of one of the classic Westerns, Shane, and this new historical romance, The Orange and the Apple. The suggestion is that we form a panel of readers and go through them. Has anyone any objection—or any better ideas?”

“We want to play poker,” said a firm voice from the rear.

“But you can't play poker all the time,” protested the Professor, thus showing a certain ignorance of the nonacademic world. The Commodore decided to go to his rescue.

“The reading need not interfere with the poker,” he said. “Besides, I suggest you take a break now and then. Those cards won't last much longer.”

“Well, which book shall we start on first? And any volunteers as readers? I'll be quite happy to do so, but we want some variety.”

“I object to wasting our time on The Orange and tile Apple,” said Miss Morley. “It's utter trash, and most of it is—er—near-pornography.”

“How do you know?” asked David Barrett, the Englishman who had commended the tea. The only answer was an indignant sniff. Professor Jayawardene looked quite unhappy, and glanced at the Commodore for support. He did not get any; Hansteen was studiously looking the other way. If the passengers relied on him for everything, that would be fatal. As far as possible, he wanted them to stand on their own feet.

“Very well,” said the Professor. “To prevent any argument, we'll start with Shane.”

There were several protesting cries of: “We want The Orange and the Apple!” but, surprisingly, the Professor stood firm. “It's a very long book,” he said. “I really don't think we'll have time to finish it before we're rescued.” He cleared his throat, looked around the cabin to see if there were any further objections, and then started to read in an extremely pleasant though rather singsong voice.