mountain peaks, leaning towers, spires, and obelisks, all sprung from an inky realm; a fire turned to stone, petrified, arrested in midflight; a wild configuration in which the eye quickly lost itself in a tangle of irreconcilable forms, finding dubious relief only in those circular pits of black, those gouged-out sockets brimming with shadow, that were, in fact, the pools of miniature craters.
It was a spectacle like no other. Pirx had been on the Moon several times—which he made a point of reiterating six times throughout the conversation—but never at this time of day, nine hours before sunset. He and Pnin kept each other company for quite a while. Pnin insisted on calling him his “colleague” and “friend,” leaving Pirx to fumble with the grammar to avoid using any direct forms of address. The Russian had a fantastic collection of photos from his mountaineering days, when he, Ganshin, and three other comrades had gone alpine climbing during a brief furlough Earthside.
Attempts had been made to coin the phrase “Moon climbing,” but it failed to catch on, the term “Lunar Alps” only confusing the issue.
Pirx, an ardent climber himself, even before his matriculation into the Institute, had found in Pnin a soulmate. He asked him how lunar mountain climbing differed from mountaineering on Earth.
“As a rule of thumb,” Pnin said, “use the same techniques you would use back home. There is no ice up here—except, and then only rarely, in very deep cracks. And no snow, either, of course. That makes the climbing look deceptively easy. What makes it even more deceiving is that you can take a thirty-meter fall without seriously injuring yourself. But never let that enter your head.”
Pirx looked puzzled. “Why is that?”
“The lack of atmosphere,” Pnin explained. “No matter how long you work the terrain, you’ll never get the knack of judging distances. Not even with a telemeter—besides, who wants to lug around a telemeter? It’s like this. You’ll scale a peak, look over the side of a cliff, and swear it’s fifty meters down. Maybe it really is fifty, but it could just as well be five or ten times that. I remember once… Well, anyway, you know the old saying. Once you tell yourself you’re going to fall, sooner or later you will. Fracture your skull on Earth and it will heal. Here, one solid jolt on the helmet, a punctured visor—and it’s all over. So don’t forget. When you climb, do the same things you would normally do in mountainous terrain; take the same chances you would take Earthside. With one exception: ravines. Even if it looks like only ten meters across—that’s a meter and a half by Earthly standards—toss a rock over to the other side and observe its flight. But my advice—my sincere advice—is: avoid any jumps. Because once you’ve cleared twenty meters, no cliff will seem too steep, no mountain too high. And remember, there’s no mountain rescue service up here…”
Pirx inquired about the Mendeleev station. Why was it built high up under the ridge and not down below? And was it a rough climb?
“No, not really. Only a few outcrops left by the slides, up around the gap—the road, you see, was wiped out by the avalanche. It would be tactless of me to comment on the choice of location, especially after what happened… But surely you must have read about it.”
Pirx flushed with embarrassment and stammered something about having had exams at the time. Pnin smiled, then turned grimly serious.
“Well, to begin with… The Moon has become internationalized; each country has its own sphere of scientific research—this hemisphere, for example, belongs to us. When it turned out that the Van Allen Belt was interfering with the process of cosmic radiation on the side facing Earth, the English asked our permission to build a station in our hemisphere. We agreed to it. Since we were at work on a station of our own on Mendeleev, we proposed they take it over from us,
It was a spectacle like no other. Pirx had been on the Moon several times—which he made a point of reiterating six times throughout the conversation—but never at this time of day, nine hours before sunset. He and Pnin kept each other company for quite a while. Pnin insisted on calling him his “colleague” and “friend,” leaving Pirx to fumble with the grammar to avoid using any direct forms of address. The Russian had a fantastic collection of photos from his mountaineering days, when he, Ganshin, and three other comrades had gone alpine climbing during a brief furlough Earthside.
Attempts had been made to coin the phrase “Moon climbing,” but it failed to catch on, the term “Lunar Alps” only confusing the issue.
Pirx, an ardent climber himself, even before his matriculation into the Institute, had found in Pnin a soulmate. He asked him how lunar mountain climbing differed from mountaineering on Earth.
“As a rule of thumb,” Pnin said, “use the same techniques you would use back home. There is no ice up here—except, and then only rarely, in very deep cracks. And no snow, either, of course. That makes the climbing look deceptively easy. What makes it even more deceiving is that you can take a thirty-meter fall without seriously injuring yourself. But never let that enter your head.”
Pirx looked puzzled. “Why is that?”
“The lack of atmosphere,” Pnin explained. “No matter how long you work the terrain, you’ll never get the knack of judging distances. Not even with a telemeter—besides, who wants to lug around a telemeter? It’s like this. You’ll scale a peak, look over the side of a cliff, and swear it’s fifty meters down. Maybe it really is fifty, but it could just as well be five or ten times that. I remember once… Well, anyway, you know the old saying. Once you tell yourself you’re going to fall, sooner or later you will. Fracture your skull on Earth and it will heal. Here, one solid jolt on the helmet, a punctured visor—and it’s all over. So don’t forget. When you climb, do the same things you would normally do in mountainous terrain; take the same chances you would take Earthside. With one exception: ravines. Even if it looks like only ten meters across—that’s a meter and a half by Earthly standards—toss a rock over to the other side and observe its flight. But my advice—my sincere advice—is: avoid any jumps. Because once you’ve cleared twenty meters, no cliff will seem too steep, no mountain too high. And remember, there’s no mountain rescue service up here…”
Pirx inquired about the Mendeleev station. Why was it built high up under the ridge and not down below? And was it a rough climb?
“No, not really. Only a few outcrops left by the slides, up around the gap—the road, you see, was wiped out by the avalanche. It would be tactless of me to comment on the choice of location, especially after what happened… But surely you must have read about it.”
Pirx flushed with embarrassment and stammered something about having had exams at the time. Pnin smiled, then turned grimly serious.
“Well, to begin with… The Moon has become internationalized; each country has its own sphere of scientific research—this hemisphere, for example, belongs to us. When it turned out that the Van Allen Belt was interfering with the process of cosmic radiation on the side facing Earth, the English asked our permission to build a station in our hemisphere. We agreed to it. Since we were at work on a station of our own on Mendeleev, we proposed they take it over from us,
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