A Fall of Moondust by Arthur C. Clarke

reassurance. He had never liked to stand up in
     court without something in his hand; there were times when a few seconds of imaginary
     consultation were priceless.
    “Would it fair to say that you were attracted by the moon’s scenic beauties?”
    “Yes, that was part of the attraction. I had seen the tourist literature and movies,
     of course, and wondered if the reality would live up to it.”
    “And has it done so?”
    “I would say,” was the dry answer, “that it has exceeded my expectations.”
    There was general laughter from the rest of the company. Commodore Hansteen rapped
     loudly on the back of his seat.
    “Order!” he called. “If there are any disturbances, I shall have to clear the Court!”
    This, as he had intended, started a much louder round of laughter, which he let run
     its natural course. When the mirth had died down, Schuster continued in his most “Where
     were you on the night of the twenty-second?” tone of voice:
    “This is very interesting, Mr. Barrett. You have come all the way to the Moon, at
     considerable expense, to look at the view. Tell me—have you ever seen the Grand Canyon?”
    “No; have you?”
    “Your Honour!” appealed Schuster. “The witness is being unresponsive.”
    Hansteen looked severely at Mr. Barrett, who did not seem in the least abashed.
    “
You
are not conducting this enquiry, Mr. Barrett. Your job is to answer questions, not
     to ask them.”
    “I beg the Court’s pardon, my Lord,” replied the witness.
    “Er—am I ‘My Lord’?” said Hansteen uncertainly, turning to Schuster. “I thought I
     was ‘Your Honour’.”
    The lawyer gave the matter several seconds of solemn thought.
    “I suggest—Your Honour—that each witness uses the procedure to which he is accustomed
     in his country. As long as due deference is shown to the court, that would seem to
     be sufficient.”
    “Very well—proceed.”
    Schuster turned to his witness once more.
    “I would like to know, Mr. Barrett, why you found it necessary to visit the Moon while
     there was so much of Earth that you hadn’t seen. Can you give us any valid reason
     for this illogical behaviour?”
    It was a good question, just the sort that would interest everyone, and Barrett was
     now making a serious attempt to answer it.
    “I’ve seen a fair amount of Earth,” he said slowly, in his precise English accent—almost
     as great a rarity now as Shuster’s spectacles. “I’ve stayed at the Hotel Everest,
     been to both Poles, even gone to the bottom of the Calypso Deep. So I know something
     about our planet; let’s say it had lost its capacity to surprise me. The Moon, on
     the other hand, was completely new—a whole world less than twenty-four hours away.
     I couldn’t resist the novelty.”
    Hansteen listened to the slow and careful analysis with only half his mind; he was
     unobtrusively examining the audience while Barrett spoke. By now he had formed a good
     picture of
Selene
’s crew and passengers, and had decided who could be relied upon—and who would give
     trouble, if conditions became bad.
    The key man, of course, was Captain Harris. The commodore knew his type well; he had
     met it so often in space—and more often still at much training establishments as Astrotech.
     (Whenever he made a speech there, it was to a front row of freshly scrubbed and barbered
     Pat Harrises.) Pat was a competent but unambitious youngster with mechanical interests
     who had been lucky enough to find a job that suited him perfectly, and which made
     no greater demands upon him than care and courtesy. (Attractive lady passengers, Hansteen
     was quite certain, would have no complaints on the latter score.) He would be loyal,
     conscientious and unimaginative, would do his duty as he saw it, and in the end would
     die gamely without making a fuss. That was a virtue not possessed by many far abler
     men, and it was one they would need badly aboard the cruiser, if they were still here
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