A Fall of Moondust

Tom did not resent being pushed around in this somewhat cavalier fashion; it meant, after all, that he was now an important piece of property. He was much more annoyed by the fact that, as anyone in Port Roris could have told him, Mike Graham arrived long before room service. It was a hungry astronomer who now faced Mike's miniature teleeamera and tried to explain, for the benefit of—as yet—only two hundred million viewers, exactly how he had been able to locate Selene.

Thanks to the transformation wrought by hunger and his recent experiences, he made a first-class job of it. A few days ago, had any TV reporter managed to drag Lawson in front of a camera to explain the technique of infrared detection, he would have been swiftly and contemptuously blinded by science. Tom would have given a no-holds-barred lecture full of such terms as quantum efficiency, black-body radiation, and spectral sensitivity that would have convinced his audience that the subject was extremely complex (which was true enough) and wholly impossible for the layman to understand (which was quite false).

But now he carefully and fairly patiently—despite the occasional urgent proddings of his stomach—answered Mike Graham's questions in terms that most of his viewers could understand. To the large section of the astronomical community which Tom had scarred at some time or other, it was a revelation. Up in Lagrange II, Professor Kotelnikov summarized the feelings of all his colleagues when, at the end of the performance, he paid Tom the ultimate compliment. “Quite frankly,” he said in tones of incredulous disbelief, “I would never have recognized him.”

It was something of a feat to have squeezed seven men into Selene's air lock, but—as Pat had demonstrated—it was the only place where one could hold a private conference. The other passengers doubtless wondered what was happening; they would soon know.

When Hansteen had finished, his listeners looked understandably worried, but not particularly surprised. They were intelligent men, and must have already guessed the truth.

“I'm telling you first,” explained the Commodore, “because Captain Harris and I decided you were all levelheaded—and tough enough to give us help if we need it. I hope to God we won't, but there may be trouble when I make my announcement.”

“And if there is?” said Harding.

“If anyone makes a fuss, jump on them,” answered the Commodore briefly. “But be as casual as you can when we go back into the cabin. Don't look as if you're expecting a fight; that's the best way to start one. Your job is to damp out panic before it spreads.”

“Do you think it's fair,” said Dr. McKenzie, “not to give an opportunity to—well, send out some last messages?”

“We thought of that, but it would take a long time and would make everyone completely depressed. We want to get this through as quickly as possible. The sooner we act, the better our chance.”

“Do you really think we have one?” asked Barrett.

“Yes,” said Hansteen, “though I'd hate to quote the odds. No more questions? Bryan ? Johanson? Right—let's go.”

As they marched back into the cabin, and took their places, the remaining passengers looked at them with curiosity and growing alarm. Hansteen did not keep them in suspense.

“I've some grave news,” he said, speaking very slowly. “You must all have noticed difficulty in breathing, and several of you have complained about headaches.

“Yes, I'm afraid it's the air. We still have plenty of oxygen—that's not our problem. But we can't get rid of the carbon dioxide we exhale; it's accumulating inside the cabin. Why, we don't know. My guess is that the heat has knocked out the chemical absorbers. But the explanation hardly matters, for there's nothing we can do about it.” He had to stop and take several deep breaths before he could continue.

“So we have to face this situation. Your breathing difficulties will get steadily worse; so will your headaches. I won't attempt to fool you. The rescue team can't possibly reach us in under six hours, and we can't wait that long.”

There was a stifled gasp from somewhere in the audience. Hansteen avoided looking for its source. A moment later there came a stertorous snore from Mrs. Schuster. At another time it would have been funny, but not now. She was one of the lucky ones; she was already peacefully, if not quietly, unconscious.

The Commodore refilled his lungs. It was tiring to talk for any length of time.

“If I couldn't offer you some hope,” he continued, “I would have said nothing. But we do have one chance and we have to take it soon. It's not a very pleasant one, but the alternative is much worse. Miss Wilkins, please hand me the sleep tubes.”

There was a deathly silence—not even interrupted by Mrs. Schuster—as the stewardess handed over a small metal box. Hansteen opened it, and took out a white cylinder the size and shape of a cigarette.