Arthur Clarke - A Fall of Moondust

“Yes”, said Hansteen, “though I'd hate to quote the odds. No more questions? Bryan? Johanson? Right — let's go.”

As they marched back into the cabin, and took their places, the remaining passengers looked at them with curiosity and growing alarm. Hansteen did not keep them in suspense.

“I've some grave news”, he said, speaking very slowly. “You must all have noticed difficulty in breathing, and several of you have complained about headaches.

“Yes, I'm afraid it's the air. We still have plenty of oxygen — that's not our problem. But we can't get rid of the carbon dioxide we exhale; it's accumulating inside the cabin. Why, we don't know. My guess is that the heat has knocked out the chemical absorbers. But the explanation hardly matters, for there's nothing we can do about it.” He had to stop and take several deep breaths before he could continue.

“So we have to face this situation. Your breathing difficulties will get steadily worse; so will your headaches. I won't attempt to fool you. The rescue team can't possibly reach us in under six hours, and we can't wait that long.”

There was a stifled gasp from somewhere in the audience. Hansteen avoided looking for its source. A moment later there came a stertorous snore from Mrs. Schuster. At another time it would have been funny, but not now. She was one of the lucky ones; she was already peacefully, if not quietly, unconscious.

The Commodore refilled his lungs. It was tiring to talk for any length of time.

“If I couldn't offer you some hope”, he continued, “I would have said nothing. But we do have one chance and we have to take it soon. It's not a very pleasant one, but the alternative is much worse. Miss Wilkins, please hand me the sleep tubes.”

There was a deathly silence — not even interrupted by Mrs. Schuster — as the stewardess handed over a small metal box. Hansteen opened it, and took out a white cylinder the size and shape of a cigarette.

“You probably know”, he continued, “that all space vehicles are compelled by law to carry these in their medicine chests. They are quite painless, and will knock you out for ten hours. That may mean all the difference between life and death — for man's respiration rate is cut by more than fifty per cent when he's unconscious. So our air will last twice as long as it would otherwise. Long enough, we hope, for Port Roris to reach us.

“Now, it's essential for at least one person to remain awake to keep in touch with the rescue team. And to be on the safe side, we should have two. One of them must be the Captain; I think that goes without argument.”

“And I suppose the other should be you?” said an all-too-familiar voice.

“I'm really very sorry for you, Miss Morley”, said Commodore Hansteen, without the slightest sign of resentment — for there was no point, now, in making an issue of a matter that had already been settled. “Just to remove any possible misconceptions —”

Before anyone quite realized what had happened, he had pressed the cylinder to his forearm.

“I'll hope to see you all — ten hours from now”, he said, very slowly but distinctly, as he walked to the nearest seat. He had barely reached it when he slumped quietly into oblivion.

It's all your show now, Pat told himself as he got to his feet. For a moment he felt like addressing a few well-chosen words to Miss Morley; then he realized that to do so would spoil the dignity of the Commodore's exit.

“I'm the captain of this vessel”, he said in a firm, low voice. “And from now on, what I say goes.”

“Not with me”, retorted the indomitable Miss Morley. “I'm a paying passenger and I have my rights. I've not the slightest intention of using one of those things.”

The blasted woman seemed unsnubbable. Pat was also compelled to admit that she had guts. He had a brief, nightmare glimpse of the future that her words suggested. Ten hours alone with Miss Morley, and no one else to talk to.

He glanced at the five troubleshooters. The nearest to Miss Morley was the Jamaican civil engineer, Robert Bryan. He looked ready and willing to move into action, but Pat still hoped that unpleasantness could be avoided.

“I don't wish to argue about rights”, he said, “but if you were to look at the small print on your tickets, you'd discover that, in an emergency, I'm in absolute charge here. In any event, this is for your own good, and your own comfort. I'd much rather be asleep than awake while we wait for the rescue team to get here.”

“That goes for me, too”, said Professor Jayawardene unexpectedly. “As the Commodore said, it will conserve the air, so it's our only chance. Miss Wilkins, will you give me one of those things?”

The calm logic of this helped to lower the emotional temperature; so did the Professor's smooth, obviously comfortable slide into unconsciousness. Two down and eighteen to go, murmured Pat under his breath.

“Let's waste no more time”, he said aloud. “As you can see, these shots are entirely painless. There's a microjet hypodermic inside each cylinder, and you won't even feel a pinprick.”

Sue was already handing out the innocent-looking little tubes, and several of the passengers had used them immediately. There went the Schusters (Irving, with a reluctant and touching tenderness, had pressed the tube against the arm of his sleeping wife) and the enigmatic Mr. Radley. That left fifteen. Who would be next?

Now Sue had come to Miss Morley. This is it, thought Pat. If she was still determined to make a fuss…

He might have guessed it.

“I thought I made it quite clear that I don't want one of these things. Please take it away.”

Robert Bryan began to inch forward, but it was the sardonic, English voice of David Barrett that did the trick.

“What really worries the good lady, Captain”, he said, obviously placing his barb with relish, “is that you may take advantage of her in her helpless condition.”

For a few seconds, Miss Morley sat speechless with fury, while her cheeks turned a bright crimson.

“I've never been so insulted in my —” she began.

“Nor have I, madam”, interjected Pat, completing her demoralization. She looked round the circle of faces — most of them solemn, but several grinning, even at a time like this — and realized that there was only one way out.

As she slumped in her seat, Pat breathed a vast sigh of relief. After that little episode, the rest should be easy.

Then he saw that Mrs. Williams, whose birthday had been celebrated in such Spartan style only a few hours before, was staring in a kind of frozen trance at the cylinder in her hand. The poor woman was obviously terrified, and no one could blame her. In the next seat, her husband had already collapsed; it was a little ungallant, Pat thought, to have gone first and left his wife to fend for herself.

Before he could take any action, Sue had moved forward.

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Williams, I made a mistake. I gave you an empty one. Perhaps you'll let me have it back…”

The whole thing was done so neatly that it looked like a conjuring trick. Sue took — or seemed to take — the tube from the unresisting fingers, but as she did so she must have jolted it against Mrs. Williams. The lady never knew what had happened; she quietly folded up and joined her husband.

Half the company was unconscious now. On the whole, thought Pat, there had been remarkably little fuss. Commodore Hansteen had been too much of a pessimist; the riot squad had not been necessary, after all.

Then, with a slight sinking feeling, he noticed something that made him change his mind. It looked as if, as usual, the Commodore had known exactly what he was doing. Miss Morley was not going to be the only difficult customer.