Arthur Clarke - A Fall of Moondust

Spenser could have said a good deal more, but it was bad business to show how much you needed someone else's wares. This might well be the news story of the decade — the first space rescue that had ever taken place literally under the eyes of the TV cameras. There had been enough accidents and disasters in space, heaven knows, but they had lacked all elements of drama or suspense. Those involved had died instantly, or had been beyond all hope of rescue when their predicament was discovered. Such tragedies produced headlines, but not sustained human-interest stories like the one he sensed here.

“There's not only the money”, said the Captain, though his tone implied that there were few matters of greater importance. “Even if the owners agree, you'll have to get special clearance from Space Control, Earthside.”

“I know; someone is working on it now. That can be organized.”

“And what about Lloyd's? Our policy doesn't cover little jaunts like this.”

Spenser leaned across the table, and prepared to drop his city-buster.

“Captain”, he said slowly, “Interplanet News is prepared to deposit a bond for the insured value of the ship — which I happen to know is a somewhat inflated six million four hundred and twenty-five thousand and fifty sterling dollars.”

Captain Anson blinked twice, and his whole attitude changed immediately. Then, looking very thoughtful, he poured himself another drink.

“I never imagined I'd take up mountaineering at my time of life”, he said. “But if you're fool enough to plonk down six million stollars — then my heart's in the highlands.”

To the great relief of her husband, Mrs. Schuster's evidence had been interrupted by lunch. She was a talkative lady, and was obviously delighted at the first opportunity she had had in years of letting her hair down. Her career, such as it was, had not been particularly distinguished when fate and the Chicago police had brought it to a sudden close, but she had certainly got around, and had known many of the great performers at the turn of the century. To not a few of the older passengers, her reminiscences brought back memories of their own youth, and faint echoes from the songs of the nineteen-nineties. At one point, without any protest from the Court, she led the entire company in a rendering of that durable favorite, “Space-suit Blues.” As a morale-builder, the Commodore decided, Mrs. Schuster was worth her weight in gold — and that was saying a good deal.

After lunch (which some of the slower eaters managed to stretch to half an hour, by chewing each mouthful fifty times) book-reading was resumed, and the agitators for The Orange and the Apple finally got their way. Since the theme was English, it was decided that Mr. Barrett was the only man for the job. He protested with vigor, but all his objections were shouted down.

“Oh, very well”, he said reluctantly. “Here we go. Chapter One. Drury Lane. 1665…”

The author certainly wasted no time. Within three pages, Sir Isaac Newton was explaining the law of gravitation to Mistress Gwyn, who had already hinted that she would like to do something in return. What form that appreciation would take, Pat Harris could readily guess, but duty called him. This entertainment was for the passengers; the crew had work to do.

“There's still one emergency locker I've not opened”, said Miss Wilkins as the air-lock door thudded softly behind them, shutting off Mr. Barrett's carefully clipped accents. “We're low on crackers and jam, but the compressed meat is holding out.”

“I'm not surprised”, answered Pat. “Everyone seems to be getting sick of it. Let's see those inventory sheets.”

The stewardess handed over the typed sheets, now much annotated with pencil marks.

“We'll start with this box. What's inside it?”

“Soap and paper towels.”

“Well, we can't eat them. And this one?”

“Candy. I was saving it for the celebration — when they find us.”

“That's a good idea, but I think you might break some of it out this evening. One piece for every passenger, as a nightcap. And this?”

“A thousand cigarettes.”

“Make sure that no one sees them. I wish you hadn't told me.” Pat grinned wryly at Sue and passed on to the next item. It was fairly obvious that food was not going to be a major problem, but they had to keep track of it. He knew the ways of Administration; after they were rescued, sooner or later some human or electronic clerk would insist on a strict accounting of all the food that had been used.

After they were rescued. Did he really believe that this was going to happen? They had been lost for more than two days, and there had not been the slightest sign that anyone was looking for them. He was not sure what signs there could be, but he had expected some.

He stood brooding in silence, until Sue asked anxiously: “What's the trouble, Pat? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no”, he said sarcastically. “We'll be docking at Base in five minutes. It's been a pleasant trip, don't you think?”

Sue stared at him incredulously; then a flush spread over her cheeks, and her eyes began to brim with tears.

“I'm sorry”, said Pat, instantly contrite. “I didn't mean that. It's been a big strain for us both, and you've been wonderful. I don't know what we'd have done without you, Sue.”

She dabbed her nose with a handkerchief, gave a brief smile, and answered: “That's all right; I understand.” They were both silent for a moment. Then she added: “Do you really think we're going to get out of this?”

He gave a gesture of helplessness.

“Who can tell? Anyway, for the sake of the passengers, we've got to appear confident. We can be certain that the whole Moon's looking for us. I can't believe it will take much longer.”

“But even if they find us, how are they going to get us out?”

Pat's eyes wandered to the external door, only a few centimeters away. He could touch it without moving from this spot; indeed, if he immobilized the safety interlock, he could open it, for it swung inward. On the other side of that thin metal sheet were unknown tons of dust that would come pouring in, like water into a sinking ship, if there was the slightest crack through which they could enter. How far above them was the surface? That was a problem that had worried him ever since they had gone under, but there seemed no way of finding out.

Nor could he answer Sue's question. It was hard to think beyond the possibility of being found. If that happened, then surely rescue would follow. The human race would not let them die, once it had discovered them alive.

But this was wishful thinking, not logic. Hundreds of times in the past, men and women had been trapped as they were now, and all the resources of great nations had been unable to save them. There were the miners behind rockfalls, sailors in sunken submarines — and, above all, astronauts in ships on wild orbits, beyond possibility of interception. Often they had been able to talk freely with their friends and relatives until the very end. That had happened only two years ago, when Cassiopeia's main drive had jammed, and all her energies had been poured into hurling her away from the sun. She was out there now, heading toward Canopus, on one of the most precisely measured orbits of any space vehicle. The astronomers would be able to pinpoint her to within a few thousand kilometers for the next million years. That must have been a great consolation to her crew, now in a tomb more permanent than any Pharaoh's.

Pat tore his mind away from this singularly profitless reverie. Their luck had not yet run out, and to anticipate disaster might be to invite it.

“Let's hurry up and finish this inventory. I want to hear how Nell is making out with Sir Isaac.”