A Fall of Moondust

“I had an even bigger job getting these at such short notice—and I'd be obliged, Captain, if you would say nothing at all about this to anyone. It's extremely confidential, at least for the moment.”

“Of course. What's it about—Selene?”

“So you guessed that, too? You're right. It may come to nothing, but I want to be prepared.”

He spread one of the photos across the desk. It was a view of the Sea of Thirst , from the standard series issued by the Lunar Survey and taken from low-altitude reconnaissance satellites. Though this was an afternoon photograph, and the shadows thus pointed in the opposite direction, it was almost identical with the view Spenser had had just before landing. He had studied it so closely that he now knew it by heart.

“The Mountains of Inaccessibility,” he said. “They rise very steeply out of the Sea to an altitude of almost two thousand meters. That dark oval is Crater Lake —”

“Where Selene was lost?”

“Where she may be lost: there's now some doubt about that. Our sociable young friend from Lagrange has evidence that she's actually gone down in the Sea of Thirst —round about this area. In that case, the people inside her may be alive. And in that case, Captain, there's going to be one hell of a salvage operation only a hundred kilometers from here. Port Roris will be the biggest new center in the solar system.”

“Phew! So that's your game. But where do I come in?”

Once again Spenser placed his finger on the map.

“Right here, Captain. I want to charter your ship. And I want you to land me, with a cameraman and two hundred kilos of TV equipment, on the western wall of the Mountains of Inaccessibility.”

“I have no further questions, your Honor,” said Counsel Schuster, sitting down abruptly.

“Very well,” replied Commodore Hansteen. “I must order the witness not to leave the jurisdiction of the Court.”

Amid general laughter, David Barrett returned to his seat. He had put on a good perfonnance; though most of his replies had been serious and thoughtful, they had been enlivened with flashes of humor and had kept the audience continuously interested. If all the other witnesses were equally forthcoming, that would solve the problem of entertainment, for as long as it had to be solved. Even if they used up all the memories of four lifetimes in every day—a complete impossibility, of course—someone would still be talking when the oxygen container gave its last gasp.

Hansteen looked at his watch. There was still an hour to go before their frugal lunch. They could revert to Shane, or start (despite Miss Morley's objections) on that preposterous historical novel. But it seemed a pity to break off now, while everyone was in a receptive mood.

“If you all feel the same way about it,” said the Commodore, “I'll call another witness.”

“I'll second that” was the quick reply from Barrett, who now considered himself safe from further inquisition. Even the poker players were in favor, so the Clerk of the Court pulled another name out of the coffeepot in which the ballot papers had been mixed.

He looked at it with some surprise, and hesitated before reading it out.

“What's the matter?” said the Court. “Is it your name?”

“Er—no,” replied the Clerk, glancing at learned Counsel with a mischievous grin. He cleared his throat and called: “Mrs. Myra Schuster!”

“Your Honor—I object!” Mrs. Schuster rose slowly, a formidable figure even though she had lost a kilogram or two since leaving Port Roris. She pointed to her husband, who looked embarrassed and tried to hide behind his notes. “Is it fair for him to ask me questions?”

“I'm willing to stand down,” said Irving Schuster, even before the Court could say “objection sustained.”

“I am prepared to take over the examination,” said the Commodore, though his expression rather belied this. “But is there anyone else who feels qualified to do so?”

There was a short silence; then, to Hansteen's surprised relief, one of the poker players stood up.

“Though I'm not a lawyer, your Honor, I have some slight legal experience. I'm willing to assist.”

“Very good, Mr. Harding. Your witness.”

Harding took Schuster's place at the front of the cabin, and surveyed his captive audience. He was a well-built, tough-looking man who somehow did not fit his own description, that he was a bank executive. Hansteen had wondered, fleetingly, if this was the truth.

“Your name is Myra Schuster?”

“Yes.”

“And what, Mrs. Schuster, are you doing on the Moon?”

The witness smiled.

“That's an easy one to answer. They told me I'd weigh only twenty kilos here-so I came.”

“For the record, why did you want to weigh twenty kilos?”

Mrs. Schuster looked at Harding as if he had said something very stupid.

“I used to be a dancer once,” she said, and her voice was suddenly wistful, her expression faraway. “I gave that up, of course, when I married Irving .”

“Why 'of course,' Mrs. Schuster?”

The witness glanced at her husband, who stirred a little uneasily, looked as if he might raise an objection, but then thought better of it.