Rocket to Luna

“Yes, there are maps,” Forbes said grudgingly. “We’ll be able to see the spot on the radar, anyway. A marker was sent up beforehand. It exploded when it hit the Moon’s surface, marking the spot with plaster of Paris.”

“Then Baker would know where to put it down.”

“Where isn’t the problem. The problem is when, and how.”

Dr. Gehardt shrugged and spread his palms wide. “I don’t see that we have any choice, Dan.”

Dr. Phelps gripped Ted’s shoulders with his long, bony fingers. “Do you think you can do it, Baker?”

Ted hesitated a moment. “I... can’t promise anything. I... I’ll study the figures and the controls and... I’ll... try.”

“And that’s not enough,” Forbes put in quickly.

Dr. Phelps smiled. “It’s more than any of us can do, Dan. You could help with the computation, but the boy has had training. Not specialized training, true, but perhaps enough to save the expedition. I’m afraid neither an engineer, a geologist, nor a physician is going to be much help in this situation.”

“That’s why Jack was to have come along,” Forbes said. “If Baker hadn’t...”

“But Baker did,” Dr. Phelps said, “and Baker is here now. Jack is a long way off.”

Forbes walked to the viewport and stood looking out at the stars. “Do what you want to do,” he said sullenly.

“We’ll let Baker try it,” Dr. Phelps said.

“Yes,” Dr. Gehardt agreed confidently.

Ted silently wished he could share the geologist’s confidence.

The rocket raced through space, a silver ship biting at the canopy of the sky. The blackness was dense, an almost tangible thing that spread around the ship like the heavy folds of a cloak. There was no sound. The blackness was a silent thing, immeasurable, infinite.

Only the stars interrupted the monotony of endless darkness.

Only the stars — and the cold Moon hanging against the ebony sky ahead.

There wasn’t much time.

There wasn’t much time. Hardly enough time, Ted thought. Even with Forbes grudgingly calling off the figures and going over the controls with him, he felt the pressure of time against him. He studied the controls with the patient care of a mother hen coddling her brood. He checked each instrument, comparing the figures with the theoretical ones the Space Station had supplied. He studied every button, every lever, every switch. And periodically he would glance up at the radar screen as the Moon grew larger and larger.

The Moon waited. The Moon had all the time in the world. There was no rush, no rush at all. Its crags and craters bleakly poked at the sky, oblivious of the speeding rocket, oblivious of the sweating, anxious men within that rocket. It waited.

The map was clear, and the area was plainly marked. If he worked everything correctly, they would come down within fifty yards of the supply dump. They would come down gently, easing toward the surface of the Moon on their stern jets, sitting down like a cat on a velvet pillow. If they came down correctly. There was the strong possibility that they would not come down correctly. And as Ted studied the map, he remembered that an unhindered fall to the surface of the Moon would crash the rocket at a speed of more than 5,000 miles per hour.

There wouldn’t be much left to pick up.

The rocket hurried to reach the embrace of the Moon. It ate space hungrily, swallowing the blackness, devouring the miles with a ravenous appetite. Its speed had been slowing, but that would soon change. When it reached a spot 24,000 miles from the Moon, the gravitational fields of Earth and its satellite would balance exactly. After that, the rocket would build up speed again, falling faster and faster, falling toward the uncompromising surface of the Moon. The rocket hurried toward its rendezvous.