A Fall of Moondust

For the first time in twenty-four hours, Maurice Spenser was relaxing. Everything that could be done had been done. Men and equipment were already moving toward Port Roris. (Lucky about Jules Braques being at Clavius; he was one of the best cameramen in the business, and they'd often worked together.) Captain Anson was doing sums with the computer and looking thoughtfully at contour maps of the Mountains. The crew (all six) had been rounded up from the bars (all three) and informed that there was yet another change of route. On Earth, at least a dozen contracts had been signed and telefaxed, and large sums of money had already changed hands. The financial wizards of Interplanet News would be calculating, with scientific precision, just how much they could charge the other agencies for the story, without driving them to charter ships of their own—not that this was at all likely, for Spenser had too great a lead. No competitor could possibly reach the Mountains in less than forty-eight hours; he would be there in six.

Yes, it was very pleasant to take it easy, in the calm and confident assurance that everything was under control and going the way you wanted. It was these interludes that made life worth living, and Spenser knew how to make the most of them. They were his panacea against ulcers—still, after a hundred years, the occupational disease of the communications industry.

It was typical of him, however, that he was relaxing on the job. He was lying, a drink in one hand, a plate of sandwiches by the other, in the small observation lounge of the Embarkation Building . Through the double sheets of glass he could see the tiny dock from which Selene had sailed three days ago. (There was no escaping from those maritime words, inappropriate though they were to this situation.) It was merely a strip of concrete stretching for twenty meters out into the uncanny flatness of the dust; lying most of its length, like a giant concertina, was the flexible tube through which the passengers could walk from the Port into the cruiser. Now open to vacuum, it was deflated and partly collapsed—a most depressing sight, Spenser could not help thinking.

He glanced at his watch, then at that unbelievable horizon. If he had been asked to guess, he would have said that it was at least a hundred kilometers away, not two or three. A few minutes later, a reflected glint of sunlight caught his eye. There they were, climbing up over the edge of the Moon. They would be here in five minutes, out of the air lock in ten. Plenty of time to finish that last sandwich.

Dr. Lawson showed no signs of recognition when Spenser greeted him; that was not surprising, for their previous brief conversation had been in almost total darkness.

“Doctor Lawson? I'm Bureau Chief of Interplanet News. Permission to record?”

“Just a minute,” interrupted Lawrence . “I know the Interplanet man. You're not Joe Leonard.. ..”

“Correct; I'm Maurice Spenser. I took over from Joe last week. He has to get used to Earth gravity again—otherwise he'll be stuck here for life.”

“Well, you're damn quick off the mark. It was only an hour ago that we radioed.”

Spenser thought it best not to mention that he had already been here the better part of a day.

“I'd still like to know if I can record,” he repeated. He was very conscientious about this. Some newsmen took a chance and went ahead without permission, but if you were caught, you lost your job. As a Bureau Chief, he had to keep the rules laid down to safeguard his profession, and the public.

“Not now, if you don't mind,” said Lawrence . “I've fifty things to organize, but Doctor Lawson will be glad to talk to you; he did most of the work and deserves all the credit. You can quote me on that.”

“Er—thank you,” mumbled Tom, looking embarrassed.

“Right—see you later,” said Lawrence . “I'll be at the Local Engineer's office, living on pills. But you might as well get some sleep.”

“Not until I've finished with you,” corrected Spenser, grabbing Tom and aiming him in the direction of the hotel.

The first person they met in the ten-meter-square foyer was Captain Anson.

“I've been looking for you, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “The Space-Workers' Union is making trouble. You know there's a ruling about time off between trips. Well, it seems that—”

“Please, Captain, not now. Take it up with Interplanet's Legal Department. Call Clavius 1234, ask for Harry Dantzig-he'll straighten it out.”

He propelled the unresisting Tom Lawson up the stairs (it was odd to find a hotel without elevators, but they were unnecessary on a world where you weighed only a dozen or so kilos) and into his suite.