Arthur Clarke - A Fall of Moondust

It was at least two years since Lawrence had been inside an igloo. There was a time, when he had been a junior engineer out on construction projects, when he had lived in one for weeks on end, and had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by rigid walls. Since those days, of course, there had been many improvements in design; it was now no particular hardship to live in a home that would fold up into a small trunk.

This was one of the latest models — a Goodyear Mark XX — and it could sustain six men for an indefinite period, as long as they were supplied with power, water, food, and oxygen. The igloo could provide everything else — even entertainment, for it had a built-in microlibrary of books, music, and video. This was no extravagant luxury, though the auditors queried it with great regularity. In space, boredom could be a killer. It might take longer than, say, a leak in an air line, but it could be just as effective, and was sometimes much messier.

Lawrence stooped slightly to enter the air lock. In some of the old models, he remembered, you practically had to go down on hands and knees. He waited for the “pressure equalized” signal, then stepped into the hemispherical main chamber.

It was like being inside a balloon; indeed, that was exactly where he was. He could see only part of the interior, for it had been divided into several compartments by movable screens. (Another modern refinement; in his day, the only privacy was that given by the curtain across the toilet.) Overhead, three meters above the floor, were the lights and the air-conditioning grille, suspended from the ceiling by elastic webbing. Against the curved wall stood collapsible metal racks, only partly erected. From the other side of the nearest screen came the sound of a voice reading from an inventory, while every few seconds another interjected, “Check.”

Lawrence stepped around the screen and found himself in the dormitory section of the igloo. Like the wall racks, the double bunks had not been fully erected; it was merely necessary to see that all the bits and pieces were in their place, for as soon as the inventory was completed everything would be packed and rushed to the site.

Lawrence did not interrupt the two storemen as they continued their careful stock-taking. This was one of those unexciting but vital jobs — of which there were so many on the Moon — upon which lives could depend. A mistake here could be a sentence of death for someone, sometime in the future.

When the checkers had come to the end of a sheet, Lawrence said, “Is this the largest model you have in stock?”

“The largest that's serviceable”, was the answer. “We have a twelve-man Mark Nineteen, but there's a slow leak in the outer envelope that has to be fixed.”

“How long will that take?”

“Only a few minutes. But then there's a twelve-hour inflation test before we're allowed to check it out.”

This was one of those times when the man who made the rules had to break them.

“We can't wait to make the full test. Put on a double patch and take a leak reading; if it's inside the standard tolerance, get the igloo checked out right away. I'll authorize the clearance.”

The risk was trivial, and he might need that big dome in a hurry. Somehow, he had to provide air and shelter for twenty-two men and women out there on the Sea of Thirst. They couldn't all wear space suits from the time they left Selene until they were ferried back to Port Roris.

There was a “beep beep” from the communicator behind his left ear. He flicked the switch at his belt and acknowledged the call.

“C. E. E. speaking.”

“Message from Selene, sir”, said a clear, tiny voice. “Very urgent — they're in trouble.”

Until now, Pat had scarcely noticed the man who was sitting with folded arms in window seat 3D, and had to think twice to remember his name. It was something like Builder — that was it, Baldur, Hans Baldur. He had looked like the typical quiet tourist who never gave any trouble.

He was still quiet, but no longer typical — for he was remaining stubbornly conscious. At first sight he appeared to be ignoring everything around him, but the twitching of a cheek muscle betrayed his tenseness.

“What are you waiting for, Mister Baldur?” asked Pat, in the most neutral tone that he could manage. He felt very glad of the moral and physical support ranged behind him; Baldur did not look exceptionally strong, but he was certainly more than Pat's Moon-born muscles could have coped with — if it came to that.

Baldur shook his head, and remained staring out of the window for all the world as if he could see something there besides his own reflection.

“You can't make me take that stuff, and I'm not going to”, he said, in heavily accented English.

“I don't want to force you to do anything”, answered Pat. “But can't you see it's for your own good — and for the good of everyone else? What possible objection do you have?”

Baldur hesitated and seemed to be struggling for words.

“It's — it's against my principles”, he said. “Yes, that's it. My religion won't allow me to take injections.”

Pat knew vaguely that there were people with such scruples. Yet he did not for a moment believe that Baldur was one of them. The man was lying. But why?

“Can I make a point?” said a voice behind Pat's back.

“Of course, Mister Harding”, he answered, welcoming anything that might break this impasse.

“You say you won't permit any injections, Mister Baldur”, continued Harding, in tones that reminded Pat of his crossexamination of Mrs. Schuster. (How long ago that seemed!) “But I can tell that you weren't born on the Moon. No one can miss going through Quarantine — so, how did you get here without taking the usual shots?”

The question obviously left Baldur extremely agitated.

“That's no business of yours”, he snapped.

“Quite true”, said Harding pleasantly. “I'm only trying to be helpful.” He stepped forward and reached out his left hand. “I don't suppose you'd let me see your Interplanetary Vaccination Certificate?”

That was a damn silly thing to ask, thought Pat. No human eye could read the magnetically inscribed information on an IVC. He wondered if this would occur to Baldur, and if so, what he would do about it.

He had no time to do anything. He was still staring, obviously taken by surprise, at Harding's open palm when Baldur's interrogator moved his other hand so swiftly that Pat never saw exactly what happened. It was like Sue's conjuring trick with Mrs. Williams — but far more spectacular, and also much deadlier. As far as Pat could judge, it involved the side of the hand and the base of the neck — and it was not, he was quite sure, the kind of skill he ever wished to acquire.

“That will hold him for fifteen minutes”, said Harding in a matter-of-fact voice, as Baldur crumpled up in his seat. “Can you give me one of those tubes? Thanks.” He pressed the cylinder against the unconscious man's arm; there was no sign that it had any additional effect.

The situation, thought Pat, had got somewhat out of his control. He was grateful that Harding had exercised his singular skills, but was not entirely happy about them.

“Now what was all that?” he asked, a little plaintively.

Harding rolled up Baldur's left sleeve, and turned the arm over to reveal the fleshy underside. The skin was covered with literally hundreds of almost invisible pinpricks.

“Know what that is?” he said quietly.

Pat nodded. Some had taken longer to make the trip than others, but by now all the vices of weary old Earth had reached the Moon.

“You can't blame the poor devil for not giving his reasons. He's been conditioned against using the needle. Judging from the state of those scars, he started his cure only a few weeks ago. Now it's psychologically impossible for him to accept an injection. I hope I've not given him a relapse, but that's the least of his worries.”