Hal Clement: Space Lash

“All right, I'll go along with that. We know that the material the suits are made of is worse than useless for wiping, but wiping and electrical discharge seem to be the only methods possible. What do we have which by any stretch of the imagination might do either job?”

“What is your camera case made of?” asked Ridging.

“As far as I know, same as the suits. It's a regular clip-on carrier, the sort that came with the suits — remember Tazewell's remarks about the dividends Air-Tight must have paid when they sold the suits to the Project? It reminded me of the old days when you had to buy a lot of accessories with your automobile whether you wanted them or not…"

“All right, you've made your point. The case is the same plastic. It would be a pretty poor wiper anyway; it's a box rather than a bag, as I remember. What else is there?”

The silence following this question was rather lengthy. The sad fact is that spacesuits don't have outside pockets for handkerchiefs. It did occur to Ridging after a time that he was carrying a set of geological specimen bags; but when he finally did think of these and took one out to use as a wiper, the unfortunate fact developed that it, too, left the wrong charge on the faceplate of his helmet. He could see the clear, smooth plastic of the bag as it passed across the plate, but the dust collected so fast behind it that he saw nothing of his surroundings. He reflected ruefully that the charge to be removed was now greater than ever. He also thought of using the map, until he remembered that he had put it on the ground and could never find it by touch.

“I never thought,” Shandara remarked after another lengthy silence, “that I'd ever miss a damp rag so badly. Blast it, Ridge, there must be something.”

“Why? We've both been thinking without any result that I can see. Don't tell me you're one of those fellows who think there's an answer to every problem.”

“I am. It may not be the answer we want, but there is one. Come on, Ridge, you're the physicist; I'm just a high-priced picture-copier. Whatever answer there is, you're going to have to furnish it; all my ideas deal with maps, and we've done about all we can with those at the moment.”

“Hm-m-m. The more I think, the more I remember that there isn't enough fuel on the Moon to get a rescue tractor out here, even if anyone knew we were in trouble and could make the trip in time. Still — wait a minute; you said something just then. What was it?”

“I said all my ideas dealt with maps, but…"

“No; before that.”

“I don't recall, unless it was that crack about damp rags, which we don't have.”

“That was it. That's it, Shan; we don't have any rags, but we do have water.”

“Yes — inside our spacesuits. Which of us opens up to save the other?”

“Neither one. Be sensible. You know as well as I do that the amount of water in a closed system containing a living person is constantly increasing; we produce it, oxidizing hydrogen in the food we eat. The suits have driers in the air cycler or we couldn't last two hours in them.”

“That's right; but how do you get the water out? You can't open your air system.”

“You can shut it off, and the check valve will keep air in your suit — remember, there's always the chance someone will have to change emergency tanks. It'll be a job, because we won't be able to see what we're doing, and working by touch through spacesuit gauntlets will he awkward as anything I've ever done. Still, I don't see anything else.”

“That means you'll have to work on my suit, then, since I don't know what to do after the line is disconnected. How long can I last before you reconnect? And what do you do, anyway? You don't mean there's a reservoir of liquid water there, do you?”

“No, it's a calcium chloride drier; and it should be fairly moist by now — you've been in the suit for several hours. It's in several sections, and I can take out one and leave you the others, so you won't suffer from its lack. The air in your suit should do you for four or five minutes, and if I can't make the disconnection and disassembly in that time I can't do it at all. Still, it's your suit, and if I do make a mistake it's your life; do you want to take the chance?”

“What have I to lose? Besides, you always were a pretty good mechanic — or if you weren't, please don't tell me. Get to work.”

“All right.”

As it happened, the job was not started right away, for there was the minor problem of finding Shandara to be solved first. The two men had been perhaps five yards apart when their faceplates were first blanked out, but neither could now be sure that he hadn't moved in the meantime, or at least shifted around to face a new direction. After some discussion of the problem, it was agreed that Shandara should stand still, while Ridging walked in what he hoped was the right direction for what he hoped was five yards, and then start from wherever he found himself to quarter the area as well as he could by length of stride. He would have to guess at his turns, since even the sun no longer could penetrate the layer of dust on the helmets.

It took a full ten minutes to bump into his companion, and even then he felt undeservedly lucky.

Shandara lay down, so as to use the minimum of energy while the work was being done. Ridging felt over the connection several times until he was sure he had them right — they were, of course, designed to be handled by spacesuit gauntlets, though not by a blindfolded operator. Then he warned the cartographer, closed the main cutoffs at helmet and emergency tanks to isolate the renewer mechanism, and opened the latter. It was a simple device, designed in throwaway units like a piece of electronic gear, with each unit automatically sealing as it was removed — a fortunate fact if the alga culture on which Shandara's life for the next few hours depended was to survive the operation.

The calcium chloride cells were easy to locate; Ridging removed two of the half-dozen to be on the safe side, replaced and reassembled the renewer, tightened the connections, and reopened the valves.

Ridging now had two cans of calcium chloride. He could not tell whether it had yet absorbed enough water actually to go into solution, though he doubted it; but he took no chances. Holding one of the little containers carefully right side up, he opened its perforated top, took a specimen bag and pushed it into the contents. The plastic was not, of course, absorptive — it was not the first time in the past hour he had regretted the change from cloth bags — but the damp crystals should adhere, and the solution if there was any would wet it. He pulled out the material and applied it to his faceplate.

It was not until much later that he became sure whether there was any liquid. For the moment it worked, and he found that he could see; he asked no more. Hastily he repeated the process on Shandara's helmet, and the two set out rapidly for the rim. They did not stop to pick up camera or map.

Travel is fast on the Moon, but they made less than four hundred meters. Then the faceplates were covered again. With a feeling of annoyance they stopped, and Ridging repeated the treatment.

This time it didn't work.

“I supposed you emptied the can while you were jumping,” Shandara remarked in an annoyed tone. “Try the other one.”

“I didn't empty anything; but I'll try.” The contents of the other container proved equally useless, and the cartographer's morale took another slump.

“What happened?” he asked. “And please don't tell me it's obvious, because you certainly didn't foresee it.”

“I didn't, but it is. The chloride dried out again.”

“I thought it held onto water.”

“It does, under certain conditions. Unfortunately its equilibrium vapor pressure at this temperature is higher than the local barometer reading. I don't suppose that every last molecule of water has gone, but what's left isn't sufficient to make a conductor. Our faceplates are holding charge again — maybe better than before; there must be some calcium chloride dust on them now, though I don't know offhand what effect it would have.”