must have done it all reminded me somehow of a
stowaway rat—surviving not so much by intelligence as by some wisdom engrained
into its whole cussed carcass.
"Joel"
I gasped. "Joe!" Into my voice was poured all my concern
about him—when he must finally realize in some measure where he was, how
inconceivably far he had blundered from anything he could call familiar. He
would just wither then, I was sure. He was a simple ranch Indian, who had
trouble writing his own name and could never understand other worlds.
Someone growled in my ears, "Oh, you
know this fella, eh?" The tone was as official as the gold-braid that went
with it—we civilian experts were under military direction, too. The tone bore a
heavy load of contemptuous disgust. It blamed me, a greenhorn, for Joe's
supergreenhorn presence. I was responsible.
"Yes, sir," I
said. "Joe Whiteskunk worked for my Dad."
Well, that officer took my words as if they
constituted an admission of mortal sin. "Oh—so?" he said with
poisonous gentleness. "And what do you think we can do with him, here? Why didn't you bring a sick baby along? It would
be less trouble.
"Why
didn't you bring an enemy spy? Then we could just shoot him. Back he goes with
the first return rocket and you'll pay his passage! Every
last cent of it if I have to take it out of your hide!"
He
said a lot more. He had me wanting to crawl into my space boots until a little
glimmer of hope came. I looked at Frank, who hadn't said anything. Right then I
didn't want any more of the Moon. Maybe Joe was our ticket back home—our way
out of a signed contract.
"Sir,"
I told the officer. "With your permission 111 personally conduct this man back to Earth."
Yeah,
but that was where Joe entered the conversation. He looked kind of sore but he
sounded both obstinate and gentle.
"I no go back, Dave," he said.
"I come—I stay. You and Frank stay too. No be scared. Sure! You big boys now. Strong—smart. I
smart, too. The Big Man back in White Sands tell big fib. He say no job for tracker here. Just now, outside, I see plenty tracks."
It burned me up. Joe was patronizing
me—treating me as if I were a frightened child who had to be soothed. Treating
me the way he had once when a gila monster had scared me out of my wits.
And
he was rattling on with that crazy illusion of his. "Yeah, I see plenty
tracks—old tracks. No wind here. No man tracks. No coyote tracks. Devil tracks."
Joe
didn't even look awed. But in his black eyes, beyond the opened view-window of
his oxygen helmet, gleamed something from the lore of his forefathers. It
seemed to satisfy a question in his mind better than all our scientific
sophistication could do for us. What I mean is that it enabled him to adjust
better than we did to complete strangeness.
Right
then something happened to our officer friend's face-presently I was to find
out that his name was Colonel Richard Kopplin. He looked sober, puzzled, less grouchy—as if something that had been bothering him
for a long time found support in Joe Whiteskunk's words.
"Hum-mm—devil
tracks," he muttered.
No,
I won't say that Kopplin didn't have plenty of other worries to make him
grumpy and officious. Maybe his own nerves were a bit twisted just by his being
on the Moon. Then he had a lot of responsibility—handling scared and
inexperienced dopes who could go batty easily and
throw everything out of kilter. Getting more tunnels dug, more apparatus set up
to draw the constituents of air and water out of rocks, riding herd on experts
to get mineral tests made.
And
it was his job too to see that the astronomical observatory was finished and
the Army fortress. Moreover, he had to deal with civilian interests. Mining companies
and their prospecting and planning—companies who wanted to set up huge atomic
piles and spaceship factories on the Moon or conduct immense
and dangerous experiments that safety interests
forced off the Earth.
But the worst part of his job was the fact
that we weren't
stowaway rat—surviving not so much by intelligence as by some wisdom engrained
into its whole cussed carcass.
"Joel"
I gasped. "Joe!" Into my voice was poured all my concern
about him—when he must finally realize in some measure where he was, how
inconceivably far he had blundered from anything he could call familiar. He
would just wither then, I was sure. He was a simple ranch Indian, who had
trouble writing his own name and could never understand other worlds.
Someone growled in my ears, "Oh, you
know this fella, eh?" The tone was as official as the gold-braid that went
with it—we civilian experts were under military direction, too. The tone bore a
heavy load of contemptuous disgust. It blamed me, a greenhorn, for Joe's
supergreenhorn presence. I was responsible.
"Yes, sir," I
said. "Joe Whiteskunk worked for my Dad."
Well, that officer took my words as if they
constituted an admission of mortal sin. "Oh—so?" he said with
poisonous gentleness. "And what do you think we can do with him, here? Why didn't you bring a sick baby along? It would
be less trouble.
"Why
didn't you bring an enemy spy? Then we could just shoot him. Back he goes with
the first return rocket and you'll pay his passage! Every
last cent of it if I have to take it out of your hide!"
He
said a lot more. He had me wanting to crawl into my space boots until a little
glimmer of hope came. I looked at Frank, who hadn't said anything. Right then I
didn't want any more of the Moon. Maybe Joe was our ticket back home—our way
out of a signed contract.
"Sir,"
I told the officer. "With your permission 111 personally conduct this man back to Earth."
Yeah,
but that was where Joe entered the conversation. He looked kind of sore but he
sounded both obstinate and gentle.
"I no go back, Dave," he said.
"I come—I stay. You and Frank stay too. No be scared. Sure! You big boys now. Strong—smart. I
smart, too. The Big Man back in White Sands tell big fib. He say no job for tracker here. Just now, outside, I see plenty tracks."
It burned me up. Joe was patronizing
me—treating me as if I were a frightened child who had to be soothed. Treating
me the way he had once when a gila monster had scared me out of my wits.
And
he was rattling on with that crazy illusion of his. "Yeah, I see plenty
tracks—old tracks. No wind here. No man tracks. No coyote tracks. Devil tracks."
Joe
didn't even look awed. But in his black eyes, beyond the opened view-window of
his oxygen helmet, gleamed something from the lore of his forefathers. It
seemed to satisfy a question in his mind better than all our scientific
sophistication could do for us. What I mean is that it enabled him to adjust
better than we did to complete strangeness.
Right
then something happened to our officer friend's face-presently I was to find
out that his name was Colonel Richard Kopplin. He looked sober, puzzled, less grouchy—as if something that had been bothering him
for a long time found support in Joe Whiteskunk's words.
"Hum-mm—devil
tracks," he muttered.
No,
I won't say that Kopplin didn't have plenty of other worries to make him
grumpy and officious. Maybe his own nerves were a bit twisted just by his being
on the Moon. Then he had a lot of responsibility—handling scared and
inexperienced dopes who could go batty easily and
throw everything out of kilter. Getting more tunnels dug, more apparatus set up
to draw the constituents of air and water out of rocks, riding herd on experts
to get mineral tests made.
And
it was his job too to see that the astronomical observatory was finished and
the Army fortress. Moreover, he had to deal with civilian interests. Mining companies
and their prospecting and planning—companies who wanted to set up huge atomic
piles and spaceship factories on the Moon or conduct immense
and dangerous experiments that safety interests
forced off the Earth.
But the worst part of his job was the fact
that we weren't
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