A Fall of Moondust

That was the lot; quite a collection of talent, though not an unusual one, for the people who came to the Moon always had something out of the ordinary—even if it was only money. But all the skill and experience now locked up in Selene could not, so it seemed to Pat, do anything to help them in their present situation.

That was not quite true, as Commodore Hansteen was now about to prove. He knew, as well as any man alive, that they would be fighting boredom as well as fear. They had been thrown upon their own resources; in an age of universal entertainment and communications, they had suddenly been cut off from the rest of the human race. Radio, TV, telefax newssheets, movies, telephone—all these things now meant no more to them than to the people of the Stone Age. They were like some ancient tribe gathered round the campfire, in a wilderness that held no other men. Even on the Pluto run, thought Commodore Hansteen, they had never been as lonely as this. They had had a fine library and had been well stocked with every possible form of canned entertainment, and they could talk by tight beam to the inner planets whenever they wished. But on Selene, there was not even a pack of cards.

That was an idea. “Miss Morley! As a journalist, I imagine you have a notebook?”

“Why, yes, Commodore.”

“Fifty-two blank sheets in it still?”

“I think so.”

“Then I must ask you to sacrifice them. Please cut them out and mark a pack of cards on them. No need to be artistic—as long as they're legible, and the lettering doesn't show through the back.”

“How are you going to shuffle paper cards?” asked somebody.

“A good problem for our Entertainment Committee to solve. Anyone who thinks they have talent in this direction?”

“I used to be on the stage,” said Myra Schuster, rather hesitantly. Her husband did not look at all pleased by this revelation, but it delighted the Commodore.

“Excellent! Though we're a little cramped for space, I was hoping we might be able to put on a play.”

Now Mrs. Schuster looked as unhappy as her husband.

“It was rather a long time ago,” she said, “and I—I never did much talking.”

There were several chuckles, and even the Commodore had difficulty in keeping a straight face. Looking at Mrs. Schuster, on the wrong side of both fifty years and a hundred kilos, it was a little hard to imagine her as, he suspected, a chorus girl.

“Never mind,” he said, “it's the spirit that counts. Who will help Mrs. Schuster?”

“I've done some amateur theatricals,” said Professor Jayawardene. “Mostly Brecht and Ibsen, though.”

That final “though” indicated recognition of the fact that something a little lighter would be appreciated here—say, one of the decadent but amusing comedies of the 1980's, which had invaded the airways in such numbers with the collapse of TV censorship.

There were no more volunteers for this job, so the Commodore moved Mrs. Schuster and Professor Jayawardene into adjacent seats and told them to start program-planning. It seemed unlikely that such an ill-assorted pair would produce anything useful, but one never knew. The main thing was to keep everyone busy, either on tasks of their own or co-operating with others.

“We'll leave it at that for the moment,” concluded Hansteen. “If you have any bright ideas, please give them to the committee. Meanwhile, I suggest you stretch your legs and get to know each other. Everyone's announced his job and home town; many of you must have common interests or know the same friends. You'll have plenty of things to talk about.” And plenty of time, too, he added silently.

He was conferring with Pat in the pilot's cubicle when they were joined by Dr. McKenzie, the Australian physicist. He looked very worried—even more so than the situation merited.

“There's something I want to tell you, Commodore,” he said urgently. “If I'm right, that seven-day oxygen reserve doesn't mean a thing. There's a much more serious danger.”

“What's that?”

“Heat.” The Australian indicated the outside world with a wave of his hand. “We're blanketed by this stuff, and it's about the best insulator you can have. On the surface, the heat our machines and bodies generated could escape into space, but down here it's trapped. That means we'll get hotter and hotter—until we cook.”

“My God,” said the Commodore. “I never thought of that. How long do you think it will take?”

“Give me half an hour, and I can make a fair estimate. My guess is—not much more than a day.”

The Commodore felt a wave of utter helplessness sweep over him. There was a horrible sickness at the pit of his stomach, like the second time he had been in free fall. (Not the first—he had been ready for it then. But on the second trip, he had been overconfident.) If this estimate was right, all their hopes were blasted. They were slim enough in all conscience, but given a week there was a slight chance that something might be done. With only a day, it was out of the question. Even if they were found in that time, they could never be rescued.