days from now.
Miss Wilkins, the stewardess, was almost as important as the captain in the scheme
of things; she was certainly not the stereotyped space-hostess image, all vapid charm
and frozen smile. She was, Hansteen had already decided, a young lady of character
and considerable education—but so, for that matter, were many space-hostesses he had
known.
Yes, he was lucky with the crew; and what about the passengers? They were considerably
above average, of course; otherwise they would not have been on the Moon in the first
place. There was an impressive reservoir of brains and talent here inside
Selene
, but the irony of the situation was that neither brains nor talent could help them
now. What was needed was character, fortitude—or in a blunter word, bravery.
Few men in this age ever knew the need for physical bravery. From birth to death,
they never came face to face with danger. The men and women aboard
Selene
had no training for what lay ahead, and he could not keep them occupied much longer
with games and amusements.
Some time in the next twelve hours, he calculated, the first cracks would appear.
By then it would be obvious that something was holding up the search parties, and
that if they found the cruiser at all, the discovery might be too late.
Commodore Hansteen glanced swiftly round the cabin. Apart from their scanty clothing
and slightly unkempt appearance, all these twenty-one men and women were still rational,
self-controlled members of society.
Which, he wondered, would be the first to go?
CHAPTER TEN
Dr. Tom Lawson, so Chief Engineer Lawrence had decided, was an exception to the old
saying, “To know all is to forgive all.” The knowledge that the astronomer has passed
a loveless, institutionalised childhood and had escaped from his origins by prodigies
of pure intellect, at the cost of all other human qualities helped one to understand
him—but not to like him. It was singular bad luck, thought Lawrence, that he was the
only scientist within three hundred thousand kilometres who happened to have an infra-red
detector, and knew how to use it.
He was now sitting in the observer’s seat of Duster Two, making the final adjustments
to the crude but effective lash-up he had contrived. A camera tripod had been fixed
on the roof of the ski, and the detector had been mounted on this, in such a way that
it could pan in any direction.
It seemed to be working, but that was hard to tell in this small, pressurised hangar,
with a confused jumble of heat sources all around it. The real test could come only
out in the Sea of Thirst.
“It’s ready,” said Lawson presently to the Chief Engineer. “Let me have a word with
the man who’s going to run it.”
The C.E.E. looked at him thoughtfully, still trying to make up his mind. There were
strong arguments for and against what he was considering now, but whatever he did,
he must not let his personal feelings intrude. The matter was far too important for
that.
“You can wear a spacesuit, can’t you?” he asked Lawson.
“I’ve never worn one in my life. They’re only needed for going outside—and we leave
that to the engineers.”
“Well, now you have a chance of learning,” said the C.E.E., ignoring the jibe. (If
it was a jibe; much of Lawson’s rudeness, he decided, was indifference to the social
graces rather than defiance of them.) “There’s not much to it, when you’re riding
a ski. You’ll be sitting still in the observer’s seat and the autoregulator takes
care of oxygen, temperature and the rest. There’s only one problem—”
“What’s that?”
“How are you for claustrophobia?”
Tom hesitated, not liking to admit any weakness. He had passed the usual space tests,
of course, and suspected—quite rightly—that he had had a very close call on some of
the psych ratings. Obviously he was not an acute claustrophobe, or he could never
have gone aboard
Miss Wilkins, the stewardess, was almost as important as the captain in the scheme
of things; she was certainly not the stereotyped space-hostess image, all vapid charm
and frozen smile. She was, Hansteen had already decided, a young lady of character
and considerable education—but so, for that matter, were many space-hostesses he had
known.
Yes, he was lucky with the crew; and what about the passengers? They were considerably
above average, of course; otherwise they would not have been on the Moon in the first
place. There was an impressive reservoir of brains and talent here inside
Selene
, but the irony of the situation was that neither brains nor talent could help them
now. What was needed was character, fortitude—or in a blunter word, bravery.
Few men in this age ever knew the need for physical bravery. From birth to death,
they never came face to face with danger. The men and women aboard
Selene
had no training for what lay ahead, and he could not keep them occupied much longer
with games and amusements.
Some time in the next twelve hours, he calculated, the first cracks would appear.
By then it would be obvious that something was holding up the search parties, and
that if they found the cruiser at all, the discovery might be too late.
Commodore Hansteen glanced swiftly round the cabin. Apart from their scanty clothing
and slightly unkempt appearance, all these twenty-one men and women were still rational,
self-controlled members of society.
Which, he wondered, would be the first to go?
CHAPTER TEN
Dr. Tom Lawson, so Chief Engineer Lawrence had decided, was an exception to the old
saying, “To know all is to forgive all.” The knowledge that the astronomer has passed
a loveless, institutionalised childhood and had escaped from his origins by prodigies
of pure intellect, at the cost of all other human qualities helped one to understand
him—but not to like him. It was singular bad luck, thought Lawrence, that he was the
only scientist within three hundred thousand kilometres who happened to have an infra-red
detector, and knew how to use it.
He was now sitting in the observer’s seat of Duster Two, making the final adjustments
to the crude but effective lash-up he had contrived. A camera tripod had been fixed
on the roof of the ski, and the detector had been mounted on this, in such a way that
it could pan in any direction.
It seemed to be working, but that was hard to tell in this small, pressurised hangar,
with a confused jumble of heat sources all around it. The real test could come only
out in the Sea of Thirst.
“It’s ready,” said Lawson presently to the Chief Engineer. “Let me have a word with
the man who’s going to run it.”
The C.E.E. looked at him thoughtfully, still trying to make up his mind. There were
strong arguments for and against what he was considering now, but whatever he did,
he must not let his personal feelings intrude. The matter was far too important for
that.
“You can wear a spacesuit, can’t you?” he asked Lawson.
“I’ve never worn one in my life. They’re only needed for going outside—and we leave
that to the engineers.”
“Well, now you have a chance of learning,” said the C.E.E., ignoring the jibe. (If
it was a jibe; much of Lawson’s rudeness, he decided, was indifference to the social
graces rather than defiance of them.) “There’s not much to it, when you’re riding
a ski. You’ll be sitting still in the observer’s seat and the autoregulator takes
care of oxygen, temperature and the rest. There’s only one problem—”
“What’s that?”
“How are you for claustrophobia?”
Tom hesitated, not liking to admit any weakness. He had passed the usual space tests,
of course, and suspected—quite rightly—that he had had a very close call on some of
the psych ratings. Obviously he was not an acute claustrophobe, or he could never
have gone aboard
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