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Authors: Space Pioneers
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consumed oxygen and gave off carbon dioxide and copious
moisture.
When he began to feel like an underwater
swimmer reaching his limit with writhing chest, Hansen gave up. He stopped.
That felt worse. He moved on at a gentle
walk, accomplishing it mostly by motion from the ankles down. Amid the stifling
warmth and stickiness inside his spacesuit, it was borne in upon him how badly
he had lost his head.
He looked back, panting. Where was the
mountain? Then, following the trail of isolated scars on the surface beyond
where they faded into the gray distance, he saw a small knob of gray against
the star-dotted black of the horizon.
"I
guess . . . I've . . . really been traveling!" he panted. "Twenty
minutes or half an hour—wonder how fast I went to put a mountain out of sight? Of course ... I was well past when I started."
That reminded him of his bolt, and he closed
his eyes in a paroxysm of shame.
The
sweat beading his forehead began to trickle down his cheekbones or nose. Now
and then, a drop rolled into his eye, despite efforts to shake his head inside
the confines of the helmet. It stung, but he was too blown to get excited over
that.
"Why did I have to go
and do that?" he groaned inwardly.
He remembered how level-headed he had been in
the first minutes of the catastrophe. Calmly, he had judged the odds of there
being any survivors; calmly, he had climbed down for the prime requisite, the
tank of oxygen; calmly, he had started off by a well-chosen route that led him
accurately to landmarks so plain that they could be spotted from Earth with a
good pair of field glasses.
He had intended to go only as far as Pico, or
perhaps the triple peak. Or had he?
Somewhere
back there, he remembered, he had begun planning a further march. There could
be no reason for that except—
Except
that he was secretly aware that he could count upon no help to reach him in
time!
"Why
should they send anybody out yet?" he asked himself. "For all they
know, we're still inside Plato, camping on the nice level lava floor. I must have been thinking that, underneath, when I was figuring which side to
pass Kirch."
He had been skating on thin ice and should
have expected a crack-up. For a moment, he considered the possibility that it
would have been better had he broken down on the spot. But then he might have
quit while still on the ringwall of the great crater.
"As it is," he said aloud,
"I'll at least get the most possible mileage out of this suit. If I live
long enough, I might even walk in on them at Base, for a surprise."
He grinned a bit as he considered that pleasant fantasy:
"Hi, Paul; where you
beenF'
"Oh, just out for a little walk on the moon."
"And where did you go
on your little moon walk?"
"Took a turn around Plato. Pretty boring but
'toujours gai, whatthehell whatthehell!'"
He
managed a deeper breath as his equipment caught up somewhat to his physical
needs. The half-grin on his lean features faded, and he stepped up his plodding
pace.
"Why
kid myself?" he snorted. "I'm just about scared senseless! And I've
got a right to be!"
Bucky O'Neil, as the pilot who was to take
the scouting rocket, occupied the only extra chair in Dr. Burney's headquarters
room. Burney sat across from him at the folding table and circled the proposed
search area continuously with the butt of his pencil. Both men eyed the map
reflectively. Burney looked as if he were trying to guess the precise location
of his tractor crew. O'Neil, tracing his route with a blunt forefinger, was
obviously attempting to estimate where he would have to punch his flare release
in order to have his camera working by the time he whipped across Plato.
"Just
to save us the wait," said Burney, leaning back in the silent, crowded
room, "report by radio as soon as you loop back. Have you checked your set
with Mike?"
The
radio operator, standing to the rear of the little group, spoke up,
"Joey's checking with the field now."
"Good!" approved
Burney. "Does anyone have
moisture.
When he began to feel like an underwater
swimmer reaching his limit with writhing chest, Hansen gave up. He stopped.
That felt worse. He moved on at a gentle
walk, accomplishing it mostly by motion from the ankles down. Amid the stifling
warmth and stickiness inside his spacesuit, it was borne in upon him how badly
he had lost his head.
He looked back, panting. Where was the
mountain? Then, following the trail of isolated scars on the surface beyond
where they faded into the gray distance, he saw a small knob of gray against
the star-dotted black of the horizon.
"I
guess . . . I've . . . really been traveling!" he panted. "Twenty
minutes or half an hour—wonder how fast I went to put a mountain out of sight? Of course ... I was well past when I started."
That reminded him of his bolt, and he closed
his eyes in a paroxysm of shame.
The
sweat beading his forehead began to trickle down his cheekbones or nose. Now
and then, a drop rolled into his eye, despite efforts to shake his head inside
the confines of the helmet. It stung, but he was too blown to get excited over
that.
"Why did I have to go
and do that?" he groaned inwardly.
He remembered how level-headed he had been in
the first minutes of the catastrophe. Calmly, he had judged the odds of there
being any survivors; calmly, he had climbed down for the prime requisite, the
tank of oxygen; calmly, he had started off by a well-chosen route that led him
accurately to landmarks so plain that they could be spotted from Earth with a
good pair of field glasses.
He had intended to go only as far as Pico, or
perhaps the triple peak. Or had he?
Somewhere
back there, he remembered, he had begun planning a further march. There could
be no reason for that except—
Except
that he was secretly aware that he could count upon no help to reach him in
time!
"Why
should they send anybody out yet?" he asked himself. "For all they
know, we're still inside Plato, camping on the nice level lava floor. I must have been thinking that, underneath, when I was figuring which side to
pass Kirch."
He had been skating on thin ice and should
have expected a crack-up. For a moment, he considered the possibility that it
would have been better had he broken down on the spot. But then he might have
quit while still on the ringwall of the great crater.
"As it is," he said aloud,
"I'll at least get the most possible mileage out of this suit. If I live
long enough, I might even walk in on them at Base, for a surprise."
He grinned a bit as he considered that pleasant fantasy:
"Hi, Paul; where you
beenF'
"Oh, just out for a little walk on the moon."
"And where did you go
on your little moon walk?"
"Took a turn around Plato. Pretty boring but
'toujours gai, whatthehell whatthehell!'"
He
managed a deeper breath as his equipment caught up somewhat to his physical
needs. The half-grin on his lean features faded, and he stepped up his plodding
pace.
"Why
kid myself?" he snorted. "I'm just about scared senseless! And I've
got a right to be!"
Bucky O'Neil, as the pilot who was to take
the scouting rocket, occupied the only extra chair in Dr. Burney's headquarters
room. Burney sat across from him at the folding table and circled the proposed
search area continuously with the butt of his pencil. Both men eyed the map
reflectively. Burney looked as if he were trying to guess the precise location
of his tractor crew. O'Neil, tracing his route with a blunt forefinger, was
obviously attempting to estimate where he would have to punch his flare release
in order to have his camera working by the time he whipped across Plato.
"Just
to save us the wait," said Burney, leaning back in the silent, crowded
room, "report by radio as soon as you loop back. Have you checked your set
with Mike?"
The
radio operator, standing to the rear of the little group, spoke up,
"Joey's checking with the field now."
"Good!" approved
Burney. "Does anyone have
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