A Fall of Moondust

“What are you waiting for, Mister Baldur?” asked Pat, in the most neutral tone that he could manage. He felt very glad of the moral and physical support ranged behind him; Baldur did not look exceptionally strong, but he was certainly more than Pat's Moon-born muscles could have coped with—if it came to that.

Baldur shook his head, and remained staring out of the window for all the world as if he could see something there besides his own reflection.

“You can't make me take that stuff, and I'm not going to,” he said, in heavily accented English.

“I don't want to force you to do anything,” answered Pat. “But can't you see it's for your own good—and for the good of everyone else? What possible objection do you have?”

Baldur hesitated and seemed to be struggling for words.

“It's—it's against my principles,” he said. “Yes, that's it. My religion won't allow me to take injections.”

Pat knew vaguely that there were people with such scruples. Yet he did not for a moment believe that Baldur was one of them. The man was lying. But why?

“Can I make a point?” said a voice behind Pat's back.

“Of course, Mister Harding,” he answered, welcoming anything that might break this impasse.

“You say you won't permit any injections, Mister Baldur,” continued Harding, in tones that reminded Pat of his crossexamination of Mrs. Schuster. (How long ago that seemed!) “But I can tell that you weren't born on the Moon. No one can miss going through Quarantine—so, how did you get here without taking the usual shots?”

The question obviously left Baldur extremely agitated.

“That's no business of yours,” he snapped.

“Quite true,” said Harding pleasantly. “I'm only trying to be helpful.” He stepped forward and reached out his left hand. “I don't suppose you'd let me see your Interplanetary Vaccination Certificate?”

That was a damn silly thing to ask, thought Pat. No human eye could read the magnetically inscribed information on an IVC. He wondered if this would occur to Baldur, and if so, what he would do about it.

He had no time to do anything. He was still staring, obviously taken by surprise, at Harding's open palm when Baldur's interrogator moved his other hand so swiftly that Pat never saw exactly what happened. It was like Sue's conjuring trick with Mrs. Williams-but far more spectacular, and also much deadlier. As far as Pat could judge, it involved the side of the hand and the base of the neck—and it was not, he was quite sure, the kind of skill he ever wished to acquire.

“That will hold him for fifteen minutes,” said Harding in a matter-of-fact voice, as Baldur crumpled up in his seat. “Can you give me one of those tubes? Thanks.” He pressed the cylinder against the unconscious man's arm; there was no sign that it had any additional effect.

The situation, thought Pat, had got somewhat out of his control. He was grateful that Harding had exercised his singular skills, but was not entirely happy about them.

“Now what was all that?” he asked, a little plaintively.

Harding rolled up Baldur's left sleeve, and turned the arm over to reveal the fleshy underside. The skin was covered with literally hundreds of almost invisible pinpricks.

“Know what that is?” he said quietly.

Pat nodded. Some had taken longer to make the trip than others, but by now all the vices of weary old Earth had reached the Moon.

“You can't blame the poor devil for not giving his reasons. He's been conditioned against using the needle. Judging from the state of those scars, he started his cure only a few weeks ago. Now it's psychologically impossible for him to accept an injection. I hope I've not given him a relapse, but that's the least of his worries.”

“How did he ever get through Quarantine?”

“Oh, there's a special section for people like this. The doctors don't talk about it, but the customers get temporary deconditioning under hypnosis. There are more of them than you might think; a trip to the Moon's highly recommended as part of the cure. It gets you away from your original environment.”

There were quite a few other questions that Pat would have liked to ask Harding, but they had already wasted several minutes. Thank heavens all the remaining passengers had gone under. That last demonstration of judo, or whatever it was, must have encouraged any stragglers.

“You won't need me any more,” said Sue, with a small, brave smile. “Good-by, Pat—wake me when it's over.”

“I will,” he promised, lowering her gently into the space between the seat rows. “Or not at all,” he added, when he saw that her eyes were closed.

He remained bending ovet her for several seconds before he regained enough control to face the others. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but now the opportunity was gone, perhaps forever.

Swallowing to overcome the dryness in his throat, he turned to the five survivors. There was still one more problem to deal with, and David Barrett summed it up for him.

“Well, Captain,” he said. “Don't leave us in suspense. Which of us do you want to keep you company?”