Rocket to Luna

The chrono ticked off the seconds. Silently, Ted studied its face with careful scrutiny. He checked the altimeter, and then his eyes fled to the speedometer and back to the chrono once more. In the radar screen overhead, the ground flashed by in a dazzling blur.

There was darkness outside now. They had left the Sun behind them in Mare Crisium.

With a rapid sweep of his eyes, Ted checked the time, altitude, and speed again. His figures were jibing. It might work. He mumbled a prayer softly, a prayer that barely escaped his lips.

Like a team of marching soldiers, the chrono, the altimeter, and the speedometer reached the calculated figures together. Ted took a deep breath and pressed the button that fired the stern jets.

There was a hollow rush of thunder, like a truck slamming into a brick wall. The ship shivered violently and brought its nose up suddenly, pointing it at the sky. They began to drop, faster, faster.

“Something’s wrong,” Ted shouted.

He gave a short blast of the starboard jets, bringing the ship’s stern around, turning it to face the barren surface beneath them. Something was straining at the tubes, roaring in almost animal fury, bellowing to be released. The engines coughed as they dropped closer to the Moon.

Ted knew what was wrong, then, and he reached for the cease-fire button, ready to cut the power from the stern jets.

A muffled explosion sounded from below, and the deck suddenly billowed up beneath them like an opening metal flower casting sharp seeds to the wind. The metal pinged around the compartment, bouncing off the bulkheads, imbedding itself in the couches. There was another explosion, and a lance of fire leaped up through the hole in the deck, scorching the overhead black.

The ship screamed in protest like a wounded animal with its entrails dripping. The bulkheads shook as if they would tear loose at any second. In the radar screen, the surface of the Moon was large and close.

Frantically, Ted stabbed at the button, cutting the jets. He reached for the landing-gear controls, releasing the stilts. The stilts screeched against the jagged surface, filling the cabin with the high whine of tearing metal. Ted clenched his teeth, his insides knotted into a tight ball, as the ship hit the surface.

It bounced like a rubber ball, landing stilts crumbling, metal buckling, tubes crushed beneath the descending force of the ship. It bounced again, then fell like a stone, toppling over to its side, a sickening crunch reverberating into the cabin.

It was all over.

There was only silence now — the silence of the Moon coupled with the deadly silence of the men inside the crippled ship.

He had failed. He had been given his second chance, and he had failed again. He didn’t look up. He covered his face with his hands, holding back the bitter tears of defeat. He bit his lip until it bled, his hands tight over his face.

When he heard Dr. Phelps’s voice, he didn’t believe it. Someone was playing a horrible joke. Someone was trying to make him feel worse than he did.

“We made it!”

He refused to listen. He turned his face to the bulkhead, wanting to crawl in between the atoms of the metal, wanting to hide forever.

“You did it, Ted! You did it!”

He shook his head. Why were they persecuting him? Why did they have to rub it in? He’d crashed the ship, yes; he was sorry, yes, sorrier than they’d ever know. But did they have to...

“Look, Ted. Just take a look!”

He turned, then, partly out of curiosity and partly because Dr. Phelps’s voice sounded so excited.

He looked through the viewport.

Scattered on the bleak pumice, like the colored bulbs on a Christmas tree, were a red rocket, a blue rocket, a yellow rocket, and a green rocket.

He opened his eyes in amazement.

“The... the supply dump!” he said, his voice sticking to the lining of his throat.

“Yes, the supply dump,” Dr. Gehardt practically sang. “Yes! Yes!”

A new despair filled Ted. “The ship. I crashed her. I...”

“Great Jupiter, boy,” Dr. Phelps said, “you’re not blaming yourself for that, are you?”

“But... but it was me... I mean...”

“There were two people responsible for this crash, Ted,” Dr. Phelps said. “Fred and I are the guilty culprits.”

“But how...”

“You know what caused that crash as well as we do, Ted,” Dr. Gehardt said. “When you pressed the firing stud, your power had no outlet. It erupted into the ship rather than where it should have.”

Dr. Phelps nodded. “The tubes were blocked, Ted. And Fred and I were the ones who repaired them. If anyone’s to blame, it’s us.”

“No, I crashed...”

“Yes,” Dr. Phelps insisted. “The tubes were blocked. You can’t get around that, and you shouldn’t even try.” He wagged his forefinger at Ted. “You’d better be careful, young man. You’re developing a strong guilt complex.”

“Mixed with a bit of a persecution complex,” Dr. Gehardt added.

Ted shook his head adamantly. “What’s the difference? We crashed, didn’t we? That means we’re stuck here now. We’ll never get back to the Station.”

Dr. Phelps smiled. “You’re forgetting something, aren’t you, Ted?”