provided they reimburse us for materials already accumulated. They accepted but then turned the project over to the Canadians. Well, English or Canadians, it made no difference to us. Since we had already conducted a preliminary land survey of the area, one of our group, Professor Animtsev, was invited to join the Canadian planning team as a consultant on local conditions. Then we learned that the English wanted back in. They sent out their man Shanner, who advised that secondary radiation pencils at the bottom of the crater could adversely affect future research. Our experts disagreed, but by this time the English had decided to make the station their own and to locate it just under the ridge. Costs skyrocketed, with the Canadians agreeing to foot the bill. But that was none of our business. We don’t go around peeking into other people’s pockets.
“Anyway, once the site was selected, a road survey was done. Animtsev tipped us off that the British were planning to lay concrete bridges across the ravines along the projected route but that the Canadians had rejected the idea as being too costly—double the original estimate. They decided to blast two ribs into the face of Mendeleev, using directional charges. I warned them that they ran the risk of disturbing the equilibrium of the basalt’s crystal core. But they wouldn’t listen. Well, what could we do? They weren’t kids, you know. We had all the selenological experience on our side—but then we thought if they won’t listen, we can’t force them to take our advice. Animtsev cast his dissenting vote, and that was that. They started blasting. One silly mistake compounded by another. The English built three slide barriers, got the station up, and brought in their crawler transports. So far, so good. But the station wasn’t three months in operation when, at the foot of the overhang, just under the Gap—the ridge’s western pass—cracks started to appear…”
Pnin got up, opened a desk drawer, and produced several large photographs.
“There,” he said, pointing to the cracks, “you’re looking at what is—or was—a kilometer-and-a-half-long wall. The road ran roughly a third of the way up the side—there, where you see that red line. The Canadians were the first to sound the alarm. Animtsev—who had hung around, still trying to convince them of their errors—told them, ‘Look, there’s a three-hundred-degree difference in temperature between day and night. The cracks are sure to expand. It’s no use. You can’t shore up a kilometer-and-a-half-long wall! Close the road, and since the station is already up, build a cable railway up there.’ Well, they began calling in the experts—from England, Canada… It was a farce: those who corroborated Animtsev’s opinion headed back as fast as they had come. The only ones left were those who advocated—cement. Yes, that’s right. They began pouring cement into those cracks. They injected, they put up abutments, they injected more cement, then more abutments, because whatever they cemented during the day would crack overnight. By this time the couloirs were beginning to spill over, but the walls held. To divert any worse slides they put up a system of wedges. That’s when Animtsev told them: ‘You’re worried about a few landslides when the whole wall is about to cave in!’
“Poor Animtsev. I couldn’t bear to look at him when he came to see us. The man was frantic. He could see it coming but was helpless to do anything about it. Granted, the English have their share of top-notch specialists. But, you see, this wasn’t a problem for a specialist, it wasn’t a selenological problem. Their prestige was at stake! They had built that road and were damned if they were going to back out. Animtsev protested for the umpteenth time and finally resigned. We later heard that the English and Canadians had quarreled about what to do with the wall—the shoulder of what’s known as the Eagle’s Wing. The
“Anyway, once the site was selected, a road survey was done. Animtsev tipped us off that the British were planning to lay concrete bridges across the ravines along the projected route but that the Canadians had rejected the idea as being too costly—double the original estimate. They decided to blast two ribs into the face of Mendeleev, using directional charges. I warned them that they ran the risk of disturbing the equilibrium of the basalt’s crystal core. But they wouldn’t listen. Well, what could we do? They weren’t kids, you know. We had all the selenological experience on our side—but then we thought if they won’t listen, we can’t force them to take our advice. Animtsev cast his dissenting vote, and that was that. They started blasting. One silly mistake compounded by another. The English built three slide barriers, got the station up, and brought in their crawler transports. So far, so good. But the station wasn’t three months in operation when, at the foot of the overhang, just under the Gap—the ridge’s western pass—cracks started to appear…”
Pnin got up, opened a desk drawer, and produced several large photographs.
“There,” he said, pointing to the cracks, “you’re looking at what is—or was—a kilometer-and-a-half-long wall. The road ran roughly a third of the way up the side—there, where you see that red line. The Canadians were the first to sound the alarm. Animtsev—who had hung around, still trying to convince them of their errors—told them, ‘Look, there’s a three-hundred-degree difference in temperature between day and night. The cracks are sure to expand. It’s no use. You can’t shore up a kilometer-and-a-half-long wall! Close the road, and since the station is already up, build a cable railway up there.’ Well, they began calling in the experts—from England, Canada… It was a farce: those who corroborated Animtsev’s opinion headed back as fast as they had come. The only ones left were those who advocated—cement. Yes, that’s right. They began pouring cement into those cracks. They injected, they put up abutments, they injected more cement, then more abutments, because whatever they cemented during the day would crack overnight. By this time the couloirs were beginning to spill over, but the walls held. To divert any worse slides they put up a system of wedges. That’s when Animtsev told them: ‘You’re worried about a few landslides when the whole wall is about to cave in!’
“Poor Animtsev. I couldn’t bear to look at him when he came to see us. The man was frantic. He could see it coming but was helpless to do anything about it. Granted, the English have their share of top-notch specialists. But, you see, this wasn’t a problem for a specialist, it wasn’t a selenological problem. Their prestige was at stake! They had built that road and were damned if they were going to back out. Animtsev protested for the umpteenth time and finally resigned. We later heard that the English and Canadians had quarreled about what to do with the wall—the shoulder of what’s known as the Eagle’s Wing. The
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