Rocket to Luna

Ted moved his head until he found one of the rubber tubes. He sucked on it, and the vitamin concentrate poured into his mouth, strong with the taste of oil. Quickly, he shifted his head and washed the taste down with a swallow of hot chocolate.

“All right,” he said, “I’ve eaten.”

“Before we start,” Forbes suggested, “I think we’d better check our map.” He reached into his pouch and unfolded the map. Ted walked over to the sled, squatting down beside Forbes.

Forbes laid a finger on the thick paper. “I figure we’re here,” he said.

Ted studied the area Forbes indicated. “You mean we’re just entering Mare Serenitatis?”

“That’s right.”

“But that means we’re behind schedule. We should be in the middle of Mare...”

“I know. But we’re just entering it. I think we are, anyway. Notice how much darker the pumice is just ahead of us. I figure that’s the beginning of the mare.”

“We shouldn’t have stopped to sleep.”

“We had to sleep, Baker. We’re not supermen.”

“All right, but...”

“What are you worried about?”

Ted hesitated. “Our oxygen.”

“Why?”

“We’re behind schedule. I don’t think we’ll have enough to get us there.”

“We’ll have enough.”

“How do you figure?”

“Simple. We were supposed to travel 300 miles a day, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. It would take us three and one-third days to travel a thousand miles.”

“That’s right. But we’re not doing 300 miles a day.”

“Forget that for a minute. Just remember that it’s supposed to take us three and one-third days. Okay?”

Ted shrugged. “Okay, okay.”

“One cylinder of oxygen carries a twelve-hour supply. That means we’d need two cylinders apiece for each day. For three days we’d need six cylinders.”

“Right.”

“For the extra third of a day, we’d need less than a full cylinder. A third of a day is eight hours, and a cylinder will last for twelve hours.”

“I still don’t see...” Ted started.

“We had fourteen cylinders on the sled when we started,” Forbes said. “Plus a cylinder on each of our backs. That’s sixteen cylinders.”

“Eight cylinders apiece,” Ted said.

“Right. Or, in other words, enough for four full days of traveling.”

“But we’re still behind schedule.”

“Not that far behind schedule, though. We’ve got a leeway of about sixteen hours, don’t you see? If it takes us four full days instead of the three and a third we figured on, we’ll still make it.”

Ted considered this for a moment. “And suppose it takes us more than four days?”

“It can’t,” Forbes said. “I figure we’re about eight hours behind schedule now. If we hurry...”

“I don’t like it,” Ted said. “I feel uneasy.”

“Look, stop worrying. When we strap on our last cylinder of oxygen, we’ll have a twelve-hour supply left. By that time, we shouldn’t be more than two or three hours from the supply dump.”

“I hope you’re right,” Ted said.

“Mark my words,” Forbes reassured him. “When we strap on those last cylinders, we won’t have more than a few hours of traveling ahead of us.”

“I hope so,” Ted repeated.

Forbes folded the map while Ted picked up the tow strap and put it on like a harness. Without another word, they started off again. Ted’s eyes never left the chrono. He counted the minutes like an executioner waiting to pull the switch. Another day passed, and they kept traveling, Ted racing against the hands of the chrono.

On the morning of the fourth day, they strapped onto their backs the last two cylinders of oxygen on the sled. Forbes allowed Ted to help him with his cylinder. He stood by while Ted strapped on his own.

When they had finished, each man bore enough oxygen on his back to last him for another twelve hours.

By their best reckoning, they were still fifteen hours away from the supply dump.

Chapter 14 The Biting Cold

They didn’t speak at all now. There was nothing to say. One thought pressed on both their minds like a suffocating blanket. They had twelve hours of oxygen left and a fifteen-hour trip ahead.

Unless. Unless what, Ted wondered. Unless they could travel at breakneck speed, catching up on time, forcing time back, gaining those three hours they needed so desperately.

The suit chrono became a dreaded thing. It sat above the tubes of chocolate and vitamin concentrate like a relentless, smirking mouth. Its hands became live things that swung around ceaselessly, mocking Ted with their rapid movement.

Ted watched that chrono with morbid fascination. The sweat clung to his forehead in shimmering globules. Every muscle in his body was tense, the nerves tangled into jangling knots. The wire strap under his armpits did its best to bite its way through the material of the space suit. The sled, bearing only Forbes now, seemed heavier, in spite of its comparative lightness.

Ted nearly gave up when the sled snagged itself on a tall rock. He struggled with it tenaciously, like a man struggling with a weed that’s threatening to snuff out the other plants in his garden. When he finally loosened the sled, they had lost ten precious minutes. The clock seemed to mock Ted openly, sitting against the metal helmet with smug superiority.