Lunar Descent by Allen Steele

which had just crawled out of a sandbox. Gray lunar dust was caked on its sides; its wide flight-deck windows and mid-deck airlock hatch gawked at him like an amphibian face. There were too many moonships named after old, dead astronauts already, and the tug was the only thing on the Moon bigger and uglier than himself. Its registered name had been insolently crossed out with two red swaths of paint, and its unofficial name had been crudely painted below: Beautiful Dreamer . No one got the inside joke behind the new name, which suited Mighty Joe Young just fine. Let the uncultured peasants lose sleep over it.
    â€œListen, the Dreamer ’s still having trouble with Main Bus A,” he said as he watched the pad rats crawling around the tug. “Probably a short in one of the conduits or something, maybe down in the mid-deck I think. The last flight up we had to keep switching over to the backup cells. I put in my report. Has anyone gotten around to fixing it yet?”
    Casey sighed. “I dunno …”
    Mighty Joe stared at the back of Engel’s head. “You don’t know ? Hell, Casey, I gotta fly that thing with a faulty electrical system! Why don’t you know?”
    Casey nodded toward the tug. “See that kid on the left? That’s one of the new guys Skycorp sent us this month. I brought it to his attention and he told me he’d look at it once he read the section in the service manuals.”
    â€œOnce he read the …? Jesus and Mary, what was the kid doing before they sent him up here, flying model rockets in his backyard?”
    The pad supervisor looked at him irritably. “Now that you mention it, he’s got an NAR patch on his vest.” Casey tapped a finger against the National Association of Rocketry patch on the right sleeve of his jacket. “Just like this one.”
    Mighty Joe grimaced. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Just get him to fix my damn ship, all right? That busline bothers me, and I gotta fly with it.” He paused, again watching the activity on the field. “Just tell me one thing. Is the Dreamer going to launch on time?”
    Casey waited until he had monitored the securance of the fuel line against the side of the Collins . A moondog climbed a ladder on a landing gear strut to manually push its collar into position and lock it firmly into place; when he was done, he turned and gave Casey a thumbs-up from across the pad. The controller nodded, double-checked his computer screen to make sure the seal was airtight, then touched a couple of buttons on his board to start the pump cycle. “You’re go for launch,” he replied without looking at Young, “but your window doesn’t begin till fifteen-hundred. It’s been moved back.”
    Mighty Joe took a deep breath and carefully counted to ten before he replied. He had a bad temper; everyone told him so, and he was trying to overcome a tendency to jump all over people. “May I ask,” he queried as politely as he could, “whatever the hell for?”
    Casey didn’t say anything. He studiously watched the post-touchdown procedure until Joe laid a huge hand on his shoulder and squeezed just a little bit. Casey winced and testily shook off Mighty Joe’s paw. “Lay off, willya? It’s not my call. The new GM radioed MainOps just after they landed. He wants a general staff meeting in Mess at thirteen-hundred. We’re all supposed to be there in one hour. No exceptions. So that means you don’t launch till fifteen-hundred.”
    â€œWhat the fuck ?”
    â€œHell, I don’t know!” Casey snapped. “I’m just telling you what I heard. Anyone who doesn’t show gets their pay docked for the day.” He glanced over his shoulder at Young. “The best I can do is fifteen-hundred if I’m going to get you guys up without a scrub. I ran the flight-plan through the computer. You’ll still make the pickup with the