a ship. But a spaceship and a spacesuit were two very different things.
“I can take it,” he said at last.
“Don’t fool yourself if you can’t,” Lawrence insisted. “I think you should come with
us, but I’m not trying to bully you into false heroics. All I ask is that you make
up your mind before we leave the hangar. It may be a little too late to have second
thoughts, when we’re twenty kilometres out to Sea.”
Tom looked at the ski and bit his lip. The idea of skimming across that infernal lake
of dust in such a flimsy contraption seemed crazy—but these men did it every day.
And if anything went wrong with the detector, there was at least a slight chance that
he could fix it.
“Here’s a suit that’s your size,” said Lawrence. “Try it on—it may help you to make
up your mind.”
Tom struggled into the flaccid yet crinkly garment, closed the front zipper, and stood,
still helmetless, feeling rather a fool. The oxygen flask that was buckled to his
harness seemed absurdly small, and Lawrence noticed his anxious glance.
“Don’t worry; that’s merely the four-hour reserve. You won’t be using it at all—the
main supply’s on the ski. Mind your nose—here comes the helmet.”
He could tell, by the expressions of those around him, that this was the moment that
separated the men from the boys. Until that helmet was seated, you were still part
of the human races; afterwards, you were alone, in a tiny mechanical world of your
own. There might be other men only centimetres away, but you had to peer at them through
thick plastic, talk to them by radio. You could not even touch them, except through
double layers of artificial skin. Someone had once written that it was very lonely
to die in a spacesuit; for the first time, Tom realised how true that must be.
The Chief Engineer’s voice sounded suddenly, reverberantly from the tiny speakers
set in the side of the helmet.
“The only control you need worry about is the intercom—that’s the panel on your right.
Normally you’ll be connected to your pilot; the circuit will be live all the time
you’re both on the ski, so you can talk to each other whenever you feel like it. But
as soon as you disconnect, you’ll have to use radio—as you’re doing now to listen
to me. Press your TRANSMIT button and talk back.”
“What’s that red Emergency button for?” asked Tom, after he had obeyed this order.
“You won’t need it—I hope. That actuates a homing beacon and sets up a radio racket
until someone comes to find you. Don’t touch any of the gadgets on the suit without
instructions from us—especially that one.”
“I won’t,” promised Tom. “Let’s go.”
He walked, rather clumsily—for he was used neither to the suit nor the lunar gravity—over
to Duster Two and took his place in the observer’s seat. A single umbilical cord,
plugged inappropriately into the right hip, connected the suit to the ski’s oxygen
communications and power. The vehicle could keep him alive, though hardly comfortable,
for three or four days at a pinch.
The little hangar was barely large enough for the two dust-skis, and it took only
a few minutes for the pumps to exhaust its air. As the suit stiffened around him,
Tom felt a touch of panic. The Chief Engineer and the two pilots were watching, and
he did not wish to give them the satisfaction of thinking that he was afraid. No man
could help feeling tense when, for the first time in his life, he went into vacuum.
The clamshell doors pivoted open; there was a faint tug of ghostly fingers as the
last vestige of air gushed out, plucking feebly at his suit before it dispersed into
the void. And then, flat and featureless, the empty grey of the Sea of Thirst stretched
out to the horizon.
For a moment it seemed impossible that here, only a few metres away, was the reality
behind the images he had studied from far out in space. (Who
“I can take it,” he said at last.
“Don’t fool yourself if you can’t,” Lawrence insisted. “I think you should come with
us, but I’m not trying to bully you into false heroics. All I ask is that you make
up your mind before we leave the hangar. It may be a little too late to have second
thoughts, when we’re twenty kilometres out to Sea.”
Tom looked at the ski and bit his lip. The idea of skimming across that infernal lake
of dust in such a flimsy contraption seemed crazy—but these men did it every day.
And if anything went wrong with the detector, there was at least a slight chance that
he could fix it.
“Here’s a suit that’s your size,” said Lawrence. “Try it on—it may help you to make
up your mind.”
Tom struggled into the flaccid yet crinkly garment, closed the front zipper, and stood,
still helmetless, feeling rather a fool. The oxygen flask that was buckled to his
harness seemed absurdly small, and Lawrence noticed his anxious glance.
“Don’t worry; that’s merely the four-hour reserve. You won’t be using it at all—the
main supply’s on the ski. Mind your nose—here comes the helmet.”
He could tell, by the expressions of those around him, that this was the moment that
separated the men from the boys. Until that helmet was seated, you were still part
of the human races; afterwards, you were alone, in a tiny mechanical world of your
own. There might be other men only centimetres away, but you had to peer at them through
thick plastic, talk to them by radio. You could not even touch them, except through
double layers of artificial skin. Someone had once written that it was very lonely
to die in a spacesuit; for the first time, Tom realised how true that must be.
The Chief Engineer’s voice sounded suddenly, reverberantly from the tiny speakers
set in the side of the helmet.
“The only control you need worry about is the intercom—that’s the panel on your right.
Normally you’ll be connected to your pilot; the circuit will be live all the time
you’re both on the ski, so you can talk to each other whenever you feel like it. But
as soon as you disconnect, you’ll have to use radio—as you’re doing now to listen
to me. Press your TRANSMIT button and talk back.”
“What’s that red Emergency button for?” asked Tom, after he had obeyed this order.
“You won’t need it—I hope. That actuates a homing beacon and sets up a radio racket
until someone comes to find you. Don’t touch any of the gadgets on the suit without
instructions from us—especially that one.”
“I won’t,” promised Tom. “Let’s go.”
He walked, rather clumsily—for he was used neither to the suit nor the lunar gravity—over
to Duster Two and took his place in the observer’s seat. A single umbilical cord,
plugged inappropriately into the right hip, connected the suit to the ski’s oxygen
communications and power. The vehicle could keep him alive, though hardly comfortable,
for three or four days at a pinch.
The little hangar was barely large enough for the two dust-skis, and it took only
a few minutes for the pumps to exhaust its air. As the suit stiffened around him,
Tom felt a touch of panic. The Chief Engineer and the two pilots were watching, and
he did not wish to give them the satisfaction of thinking that he was afraid. No man
could help feeling tense when, for the first time in his life, he went into vacuum.
The clamshell doors pivoted open; there was a faint tug of ghostly fingers as the
last vestige of air gushed out, plucking feebly at his suit before it dispersed into
the void. And then, flat and featureless, the empty grey of the Sea of Thirst stretched
out to the horizon.
For a moment it seemed impossible that here, only a few metres away, was the reality
behind the images he had studied from far out in space. (Who
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