Rocket to Luna

They kept moving, the pace a fast one now. Ted practically ran, tempted to leave the sled and its bulky awkwardness, tempted to leap through the air in space-devouring jumps that would bring him to the supplies. He thought of Forbes then, a foot that was probably frozen solid in the boot of his suit, a cylinder of oxygen that would last twelve hours on his back. No, he couldn’t take to the air. He had to stick to the ground and the sled, and somehow make up for lost time. They didn’t consult the map again. They knew where they were, and checking on it would only waste more time. The high peaks of the Haemus Mountains stretched off on Ted’s left, and on his right he could see the jagged heights of the Caucasus Mountains. That meant that Archimedes was dead ahead. And three miles beyond that was the supply dump.

Dead ahead.

But, oh, so far ahead. So very far ahead.

There was nothing to do but keep going.

The Moon did its best to hinder their passage. It erected its best obstacle course, and then sat back to watch the struggling humans. The best obstacle was the razor-sharp rock. The Moon had plenty of these, situated strategically. Jagged, coarse, jutting out of the surface like stained dragons’ teeth, waiting to bite and tear. The pumice was good too. It was thick and it clung and pulled and hung. The Moon did its very best, enjoying the spectacle immensely. The people back on Earth looked up and smiled. The Moon was a thin crescent against the blackness, hanging there like a lopsided, grinning mouth.

Time was running out. Ted knew it, and he dreaded it. He hadn’t turned back to look at Forbes since they’d strapped on the new cylinders and started their race. He felt like a victim being led to the execution chamber, with a big-faced clock ticking off the seconds to his death. Ted’s clock didn’t tick, and that made it worse. It didn’t have to tick. He wanted to reach up and smash its glowing face, but the clock was inside his helmet and he couldn’t reach it without opening his face plate. And if he did that, he’d suffocate. He smiled grimly. The way things were going, he’d probably suffocate anyway. Was it pleasant to die by asphyxiation? Ted wondered about it. He tried to center his anger on the chronometer, knowing that anger at the Moon would do him no good, knowing that anger at the dagger-like rocks and deep pumice would only cause carelessness. The chrono was a good scapegoat, and he blamed all their ills on it. Doggedly, he pushed on, licking his lips anxiously.

The Moon, dissatisfied with the ineffectualness of its obstacle course, dug into its bag of tricks and pulled out another weapon. The weapon had been there all the time, of course, but the Moon began using it in earnest now. It sat back to watch the effects.

“My face plate is frosting up,” Ted said suddenly.

“What?”

These were the first words spoken since the race had started. They sounded strange, the way a shout would in a quiet church.

“My face plate. It’s covered with ice.”

“Give it a blast of hot air,” Forbes said. “The lever is outside on your...”

“I know where the lever is,” Ted snapped. “Something’s wrong. No air is coming through the tubes.”

“Try it again, Baker.”

“Why? It’s not working, I tell you.”

“Take it easy, Ted.”

Ted stopped short in the middle of a word. Forbes had called him “Ted.” He tried to calm himself. The frost was closing in on his helmet, thick ice forming on the edges, where plexiglass joined metal. It shot long white lances across the transparent surface, spearing its way toward the center of the face plate, leaving a circle of clearness in the center.

Frantically, Ted rubbed at the outside of the face plate with his gloved hand.

“It’s no use,” he said. “Something’s blocking the tube.”

“Is it bad?” Forbes said.

“I’m looking through a spot the size of a quarter. That’ll probably be covered in a few minutes.”