Rocket to Luna

Ted braced himself by clinging to one of the couches, then shoved down hard on the doctor’s shoulder. Together with his burden, Dr. Phelps floated to the deck. His magnetized sandals gripped the metal and held him firmly rooted there, his arms still tight around Merola’s waist.

“Let’s hurry,” he called to Dr. Gehardt.

Forbes, sandals on his own feet now, helped Dr. Phelps lower Merola to the deck. He threw a line over Merola’s chest, the magnetic blocks on either end clinging to the deck. He did the same to the captain’s knees, then held his head up while Dr. Phelps examined the wound more closely.

“Here’s the kit, Peter,” Dr. Gehardt said, drifting over from one of the lockers.

“Thank you.” Dr. Phelps took the kit and rested its magnetic bottom on the deck. He lifted the lid a trifle, removing a plastic container of alcohol and slamming the lid tight again. He squirted some alcohol onto his hands and rubbed them briskly. He then reached into the kit for a wad of cotton, saturating it with alcohol. Methodically, deftly, he began to clean the wound.

“I hope it’s just a fracture,” he murmured.

Beads of sweat stood out on Forbes’s forehead beneath his close-cropped hair. There was a worried expression on his face. He licked his lips quickly.

“What else could it be, Doc?”

Dr. Phelps didn’t look up. His fingers kept moving rapidly around the wound. “Concussion,” he murmured.

Ted watched them from above, wanting to help, but knowing there was nothing he could really do.

“Is that bad?” Forbes asked.

Dr. Phelps’s black brows curled up onto his forehead in surprise. “Concussion?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Dr. Phelps nodded solemnly. “Yes, I’m afraid concussion would be very bad.”

Forbes let out a deep breath.

“The bleeding doesn’t seem to be too bad though,” Dr. Phelps went on. He barely turned his head. “Fred, let me have one of those sulfapaks.”

Dr. Gehardt lifted the lid of the kit too quickly, and a roll of gauze floated up into the air, unrolling as it went. Dr. Gehardt made a stab at recapturing it.

“Let it go,” Dr. Phelps said quickly. “The sulfapak, please.”

Dr. Gehardt’s fingers fumbled inside the kit. He was trembling when he finally handed Dr. Phelps the package. The physician ripped the package open, stared at the pad for a moment and then quickly placed it over the wound.

“There are some large squares of cotton in the kit,” he said. “The material, not the absorbent cotton. May I have several of them?”

Dr. Gehardt found the handkerchief-size pieces of cloth and handed them to Dr. Phelps. Quickly the doctor’s fingers formed the squares into a solid-looking ring pad, slightly larger than the wound and resembling a cloth quoit. “Get the gauze now,” he said.

Ted snatched the roll of gauze out of the air and brought it down to the doctor. Dr. Phelps took the end of the roll, placed the ring pad in place over the dressing, and then looped the gauze under Merola’s chin, up over his head and the wound, under the chin again. He kept unwinding the roll until the ring pad was completely covered with several layers of gauze. He snipped off a half-inch of adhesive then, and taped the bandage in place. He ran another bandage across Merola’s forehead and over the wound, taping this too.

“All right,” he said, “let’s move him to one of the couches.”

Forbes clumped across the deck in his heavy sandals and guided Merola’s feet, as Dr. Phelps steered his shoulders into the bottom couch on the starboard side of the ship. They laid him down gently, pulling the straps over his shoulders and waist.

Dr. Phelps squirted some more alcohol onto his hands, rinsing off the blood. He dried his hands, his eyes never leaving Merola’s inert figure on the couch.

He shook his head then. “There’s nothing more we can do. Except wait. And maybe pray.”

On the fourth day out from the Station, long after they had fixed the loose rivet, Forbes called a meeting of the crew. They clustered around the instrument panel, their faces serious. Ted stood off in the corner of the ship, an unwelcome eavesdropper.

Forbes got straight to the point. He ran his strong, square finger tips through his short blond hair, pulled his hand away from his head, and said, “We’re in a tight spot.” He paused, and his eyes were troubled. He looked as if he were about to cry, his features about to crumble. “George is still unconscious. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“I don’t believe it’s a concussion,” Dr. Phelps said. “A very bad fracture and subsequent shock — but not a concussion.” He shook his head. “If we had some way of taking an X ray...”

“Will he be coming around soon?” Forbes asked.

Dr. Phelps sighed deeply. “I wish I knew. He may gain consciousness at any moment, or it may take days.”

“We haven’t got days, Doc,” Forbes said grimly.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. At about this time tomorrow, we’ll have to attempt a landing on the Moon.” Forbes’s shoulders sagged, as if he were too tired to go on. “George is our pilot and navigator.”