A Fall of Moondust

He seemed to be moving in a fog; he could not remember a time when it was not there. Apart from the dull ache in his lungs, he was not really uncomfortable—merely incredibly, unbelievably tired. He was now no more than a robot, going about a task whose meaning he had long ago forgotten, if indeed he had ever known it. There was a wrench in his hand; he had taken it out of the tool kit hours ago, knowing that it would be needed. Perhaps it would remind him of what he had to do when the time came.

From a great distance, it seemed, he heard a snatch of conversation that was obviously not intended for him. Someone had forgotten to switch channels.

“We should have fixed it so that the drill could be unscrewed from this end. Suppose he's too weak to do it?”

“We had to take the risk; the extra fittings would have delayed us at least an hour. Give me that—”

Then the circuit went dead; but Pat had heard enough to make him angry—or as angry as a man could be, in his halfstupefied condition. He'd show them—he and his good pal Doctor Mac—Mac what? He could no longer remember the name.

He turned slowly round in his swiveling seat and looked back along the Golgotha-like shambles of the cabin. For a moment he could not find the physicist among the other tumbled bodies; then he saw that he was kneeling beside Mrs. Williams, whose dates of birth and death now looked like being very close together. McKenzie was holding the oxygen mask over her face, quite unaware of the fact that the telltale hiss of gas from the cylinder had ceased, and the gauge had long ago reached zero.

“We're almost there,” said the radio. “You should hear us hit at any minute.”

So soon? thought Pat. But, of course, a heavy tube would slice down through the dust almost as quickly as it could be lowered. He thought he was very clever to deduce this.

Bang! Something had hit the roof. But where?

“I can hear you,” he whispered. “You've reached us.”

“We know,” answered the voice. “We can feel the contact. But you have to do the rest. Can you tell where the drill's touching? Is it in a clear section of the roof, or is it over the wiring? We'll raise and lower it several times, to help you locate it.”

Pat felt rather aggrieved at this. It seemed terribly unfair that he should have to decide such a complicated matter.

Knock, knock went the drill against the roof. He couldn't for the life of him (why did that phrase seem so appropriate?) locate the exact position of the sound. Well, they had nothing to lose.

“Go ahead,” he murmured. “You're in the clear.” He had to repeat it twice before they understood his words.

Instantly—they were quick off the pad up there—the drill started whirring against the outer hull. He could hear the sound very distinctly, more beautiful than any music.

The bit was through the first obstacle in less than a minute. He heard it race, then stop as the motor was cut. Then the operator lowered it the few centimeters to the inner hull, and started it spinning again.

The sound was much louder now, and could be pinpointed exactly. It came, Pat was mildly disconcerted to note, from very close to the main cable conduit, along the center of the roof. If it went through that .. .

Slowly and unsteadily he got to his feet and walked over to the source of the sound. He had just reached it when there was a shower of dust from the ceiling, a sudden spitting of electricity—and the main lights went out.

Luckily, the emergency lighting remained on. It took Pat's eyes several seconds to adapt to the dim red glow. Then he saw that a metal tube was protruding through the roof. It moved slowly downward until it had traveled half a meter into the cabin; and there it stopped.

The radio was talking in the background, saying something that he knew was very important. He tried to make sense of it as he fitted the wrench around the bit head, and tightened the screw adjustment.

“Don't undo the bit until we tell you,” said that remote voice. “We had no time to fit a nonreturn valve—the pipe's open to vacuum at this end. We'll tell you as soon as we're ready. I repeat, don't remove the bit until we say so.”

Pat wished the man would stop bothering him; he knew exactly what to do. If he leaned with all his might on the handle of the wrench—so—the drill head would come off, and he'd be able to breathe again.

Why wasn't it moving? He tried once more.

“My God,” said the radio. “Stop that! We're not ready! You'll lose all your air!”

Just a minute, thought Pat, ignoring the distraction. There's something wrong here. A screw can turn this way—or that way. Suppose I'm tightening it up, when I should be doing the opposite?

This was horribly complicated. He looked at his right hand, then his left; neither seemed to help. (Nor did that silly man shouting on the radio.) Well, he could try the other way and see if that was better.