Philip Dick - The Science Fiction Anthology

He let that sink in, then clicked back: “The Moon ?”

“You think you can land here with whatever you’ve got, man? There’s no way of knowing how contagious it is. And keep an hourly check with us. If you pass out, we’ll try to get someone out in a Moon rocket to pick you up. But we can’t risk danger of infecting the whole planet. You’re quarantined on the Moon—we’ll send up landing instructions later—not even for Luna Base, but where there will be no chance of contamination for others. You didn’t really expect to come back here, did you, Adams?”

He should have thought of it. He knew that. And he knew that the words from Earth weren’t as callous as they sounded. Down there, men would be sweating with him, going crazy trying to do something. But they were right. Earth had to be protected first; Bill Adams was only one out of two and a half billions, even if he had reached a planet before any other man.

Yeah, it was fine to be a hero. But heroes shouldn’t menace the rest of the world.

Logically, he knew they were right. That helped him get his emotions under control. “Where do you want me to put down?”

“Tycho. It isn’t hard to spot for radar-controlled delivery of supplies to you, but it’s a good seven hundred miles from Lunar Base. And look—we’ll try to get a doctor to you. But keep us informed if anything slips. We need those maps, if we can find a way to sterilize ‘em.”

“Okay,” he acknowledged. “And tell the cartographers there are no craters, no intelligence, and only plants about half an inch high. Mars stinks.”

They’d already been busy, he saw, as he teetered down on his jets for a landing on Tycho. Holding control was the hardest job he’d ever done. A series of itchings cropped out just as the work got tricky, when he could no longer see the surface, and had to go by feel. But somehow he made it. Then he relaxed and began an orgy of scratching.

And he’d thought there was something romantic about being a hero!

The supplies that had already been sent up by the superfast unmanned missiles would give him something to do, at least. He moved back the two feet needed to reach his developing tanks and went through the process of spraying and gargling. It was soothing enough while it went on, but it offered only momentary help.

Then his stomach began showing distress signs. He fought against it, tightening up. It did no good. His hasty breakfast of just black coffee wanted to come up—and did, giving him barely time to make the little booth.

He washed his mouth out and grabbed for the radar key, banging out a report on this. The doctors must have been standing by down at the big station, because there was only a slight delay before the answering signal came: “Any blood?”

Another knot added itself to his intestines. “I don’t know—don’t think so, but I didn’t look.”

“Look, next time. We’re trying to get this related to some of the familiar diseases. It must have some relation—there are only so many ways a man can be sick. We’ve got a doctor coming over, Adams. None on the Moon, but we’re shipping him through. He’ll set down in about nine hours. And there’s some stuff to take on the supply missiles. May not help, but we’re trying a mixture of the antibiotics. Also some ACS and anodynes for the itching and rash. Hope they work. Let us know any reaction.”

Bill cut off. He’d have to try. They were as much in the dark about this as he was, but they had a better background for guessing and trial and error. And if the bugs in him happened to like tachiomycetin, he wouldn’t be too much worse off. Damn it, had there been blood?

He forced his mind off it, climbed into his clothes and then into the spacesuit that hung from the grapples. It moved automatically into position, the two halves sliding shut and sealing from outside. The big gloves on his hands were too clumsy for such operations.

Then he went bounding across the Moon. Halfway to the supplies he felt the itching come back, and he slithered and wriggled around, trying to scratch his skin against his clothing. It didn’t help much. He was sweating harder, and his eyes were watering. He manipulated the little visor-cleaning gadget, trying to poke his face forward to brush the frustration tears from his eyes. He couldn’t quite reach it.

There were three supply missiles, each holding about two hundred pounds, Earth weight. He tied them together and slung them over his back, heading toward his ship. Here they weighed only a hundred pounds, and with his own weight and the suit added, the whole load came to little more than his normal weight on Earth.

He tried shifting the supplies around on his back, getting them to press against the spots of torment as he walked. It simply unbalanced him, without really relieving the itching. Fortunately, though, his eyes were clearing a little. He gritted his teeth and fought back through the powdery pumice surface, kicking up clouds of dust that settled slowly but completely—though the gravity was low, there was no air to hold them up.

Nothing had ever looked better than the airlock of the ship. He let the grapples hook the suit off him as soon as the outer seal was shut and went into a whirling dervish act. Aches and pains could be stood—but itching !

Apparently, though, the spray and gargle had helped a little, since his nose felt somewhat clearer and his eyes were definitely better. He repeated them, and then found the medical supplies, with a long list of instructions.

They were really shooting the pharmacy at him. He injected himself, swallowed things, rubbed himself down with others, and waited. Whatever they’d given him didn’t offer any immediate help. He began to feel worse. But on contacting Earth by radar, he was assured that that might be expected.

“We’ve got another missile coming, with metal foil for the maps and photos—plus a small copying camera. You can print them right on the metal, seal that in a can, and leave it for the rocket that’s bringing the doctor. The pilot will blast over it—that should sterilize it—and pick it up when it cools.”

Bill swore, but he was in his suit when the missile landed, heading out across the pumice-covered wastes toward it. The salves had helped the itching a little, but not much. And his nose had grown worse again.

He jockeyed the big supply can out of the torpedo-shaped missile, packed it on his back, and headed for his ship. The itching was acting up as he sweated—this made a real load, about like packing a hundred bulky pounds over his normal Earth weight through the soft drift of the pumice. But his nose was clearing again; it was apparently becoming cyclic. He’d have to relay that information back to the medics. And where were they getting a doctor crazy enough to take a chance with him?

He climbed out of the suit and went through the ritual of scratching, noticing that his fever had gone up, and that his muscles were shaking. His head seemed light, as if he were in for a spell of dizziness. They’d be interested in that, back on Earth, though it wouldn’t do much good. He couldn’t work up a clinical attitude about himself. All he wanted was a chance to get over this disease before it killed him.

He dragged out the photo and copying equipment, under a red light. It filled what little space was left in his cubbyhole cabin. Then he swore, gulping down more of the pills where they were waiting for him. The metal sheets were fine. They were excellent. The only thing wrong was that they wouldn’t fit his developing trays—and they were tough enough to give him no way of cutting them to size.

He stuffed them back in their container and shoved it into the airlock. Then his stomach kicked up again. He couldn’t see any blood in the result, but he couldn’t be sure—the color of the pills might hide traces. He flushed it down, his head turning in circles, and went to the radar. This time he didn’t even wait for a reply; let them worry about their damned maps. They could send cutting equipment with the doctor and pick up the things later. They could pick up his corpse and cremate it at the same time, for all he cared right now.