A Fall of Moondust

Pat tore his mind away from this singularly profitless reverie. Their luck had not yet run out, and to anticipate disaster might be to invite it.

“Let's hurry up and finish this inventory. I want to hear how Nell is making out with Sir Isaac.”

That was a much more pleasant train of thought, especially when you were standing so close to a very attractive and scantily dressed girl. In a situation like this, thought Pat, women had one great advantage over men. Sue still looked fairly smart, despite the fact that nothing much was left of her uniform in this tropical heat. But he, like all the men aboard Selene, felt scratchily uncomfortable with his three days' growth of beard, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Sue did not seem to mind the stubble, though, when he abandoned the pretense of work and moved up so close that his bristles rubbed against her cheek. On the other hand, she did not show any enthusiasm. She merely stood there, in front of the half-empty locker, as if she had expected this and was not in the least surprised. It was a disconcerting reaction, and after a few seconds Pat drew away.

“I suppose you think I'm an unscrupulous wolf,” he said, “trying to take advantage of you like this.”

“Not particularly,” Sue answered. She gave a rather tired laugh. “It makes me glad to know that I'm not slipping. No girl ever minds a man starting to make approaches. It's when he won't stop that she gets annoyed.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“We're not in love, Pat. To me, that's rather important. Even now.”

“Would it still be important if you knew we won't get out of this?”

Her forehead wrinkled in concentration.

“I'm not sure—but you said yourself we've got to assume that they'll find us. If we don't, then we might as well give up right away.”

“Sorry,” said Pat. “I don't want you under those terms. I like you too much, for one thing.”

“I'm glad to hear that. You know I've always enjoyed working with you—there were plenty of other jobs I could have transferred to.”

“Bad luck for you,” Pat answered, “that you didn't.” His brief gust of desire, triggered by proximity, solitude, scanty clothing, and sheer emotional strain, had already evaporated.

“Now you're being pessimistic again,” said Sue. “You know, that's your big trouble. You let things get you down. And you won't assert yourself; anyone can push you around.”

Pat looked at her with more surprise than annoyance.

“I'd no idea,” he said, “that you'd been busy psyching me.”

“I haven't. But if you're interested in someone, and work with him, how can you help learning about him?”

“Well, I don't believe that people push me around.”

“No? Who's running this ship now?”

“If you mean the Commodore, that's different. He's a thousand times better qualified to take charge than I am. And he's been absolutely correct about it—he's asked my permission all along the line.”

“He doesn't bother now. Anyway, that's not the whole point. Aren't you glad he's taken over?”

Pat thought about this for several seconds. Then he looked at Sue with grudging respect.

“Maybe you're right. I've never cared to throw my weight about, or assert my authority—if I have any. I guess that's why I'm driver of a Moon bus, not skipper of a space liner. It's a little late to do anything about it now.”

“You're not thirty yet.”

“Thank you for those kind words. I'm thirty-two. We Harrises retain our youthful good looks well into old age. It's usually all we have left by then.”

“Thirty-two—and no steady girl friend?”

Ha! thought Pat, there are several things you don't know about me. But there was no point in mentioning Clarissa and her little apartment in Copernicus City , which now seemed so far away. (And how upset is Clarissa right now? he wondered. Which of the boys is busy consoling her? Perhaps Sue is right, after all. I don't have a steady girl friend. I haven't had one since Yvonne, and that was five years ago. No, my God-seven years ago.)

“I believe there's safety in numbers,” he said. “One of these days I'll settle down.”

“Perhaps you'll still be saying that when you're forty—or fifty. There are so many spacemen like that. They haven't settled down when it's time to retire, and then it's too late. Look at the Commodore, for example.”

“What about him? I'm beginning to get a little tired of the subject.”

“He's spent all his life in space. He has no family, no children. Earth can't mean much to him—he's spent so little rime there. He must have felt quite lost when he reached the age limit. This accident has been a godsend to him; he's really enjoying himself now.”

“Good for him; he deserves it. I'll be happy if I've done a tenth as much as he has when I've reached his age—which doesn't seem very likely at the moment.”

Pat became aware that he was still holding the inventory sheets; he had forgotten all about them. They were a reminder of their dwindling resources, and he looked at them with distaste.

“Back to work,” he said. “We have to think of the passengers.”