by HARL VINCENT
_A Story of the "Other Side" of the
Moon by a master of science-fiction_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Comet January 41.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Bill Bonwitt, the young chief engineer at the mercury mines that bored
into the surface of Earth's moon at the crater Tycho, knew something
was wrong. His hob-nailed boots beat a swift tattoo on the metal steps
as he quick-footed down to the radio room.
"Crane!" he yelled to the operator. "Have you felt it?"
His friend grinned up from the ethertype machine. There came a
quivering of the floor, then a prolonged but diminishing vibration. "I
felt it, sure. That was the transport, blasting away from Tycho, is
all. What's wrong with you--jitters?"
"Nuts, Crane; it wasn't the ship. _We're_ moving; the moon's on a
rampage. Earth's gone cockeyed overhead. I've seen it, felt it."
"Wha-a-at!" Crane's grin froze. He slanted his sorrel-topped head.
"Damned if I don't think you've got something there," he conceded after
a moment. "I feel it, too; sort of a swing and sway."
The operator attacked his keyboard. Tape chattered through the
transmitter wildly. "Asking New York to check with Mount Palomar," he
explained soberly. Val Crane's freckles emerged from their camouflage
as his cheeks paled. The moon had gone haywire.
"Come up above," urged Bonwitt. "In the dome you can see--"
"Right," Crane approved, switching off his transmitter as the tape
snipped out, his message completed.
The beryllium steps resounded again as two pairs of heavy Lunar boots
clattered upward. Black velvet of the heavens loomed above the blacker
braces of the crystal dome breaking the scene into an intricate
network. Earth, a huge ball overhead, was swinging across space, when
it should have been stationary.
"Cripes!" swore Crane. "What the--"
Luna quaked mightily and Earth slowly swung back to normal with a snap
that jarred their insides almost loose.
Stunned, breathless, they ducked as the _Atomic I_ blazed away from
the base of Tycho's rim, her twin jets spouting trails of blazing
magnificence in a double arcing trail earthward. A dazzling sight under
ordinary circumstances, inconsequential now.
A furious chattering of the ethertype below sent them to the room of
the radio with more echoing thumpings.
Crane grabbed the tape, reading aloud as it fluttered through his
trembling fingers. "Mount Palomar reports Luna shifted three and one
half degrees eastward from normal by unaccountable rotation on her
axis, returning suddenly to original position. More later from here.
Keep us advised of any further developments there. Atomic, N.Y."
"Three and a half degrees!" gasped Bonwitt. "Sixty-six surface miles in
as many seconds."
Sounds of distress wafted up from still further down in the workings. A
metallic crash. Shouts. Bonwitt started down toward the machine shop as
Crane hunched once more over his ticker.
A new drill press, not yet bolted down, had toppled and pinned one of
the mechanics to the floor. The man was unconscious; his fellow workers
were heaving sweatily to free him. Peterson, the new super of the
mines, looked on, bellowing, purpled. He leered at Bill Bonwitt.
"What the hell happened?" he demanded. "Where were you?"
Bonwitt flared up; he didn't like Peterson. "I'm off duty," he snapped.
"Besides, nothing could be done. All that happened is the moon shifted
a little on its axis and came back."
"I'll say it shifted! A mile of Tycho's rim caved in just past our
workings. And you in the dome!" A sneer twisted the super's thin lips.
He was looking for trouble.
Bonwitt bristled anew but curbed his wrath, shrugging it all off.
"No damage, was there?" he inquired mildly. "No air leaks?" He moved
nonchalantly to where they were helping the victim of the accident.
Peterson followed, watching as they pulled the man out and laid him on
a bench. Bonwitt examined the injured man swiftly.
"No broken bones," he proclaimed tersely. "Take him to Doc Tonge. He'll
fix him up in a jif."
The fellow, tawny of skin, a runt of unguessable age and origin, gasped
and opened his eyes. They fixed, glass-hard, on Peterson.
"Ficora!" he shrieked. "Jombalo!" He slipped again into coma.
Bonwitt wheeled but Peterson had gone. Queer! Andy Pauchek was the
victim's name on the payroll. A mystery to the rest in the place. No
friends; apparently no antecedents. But it was sure he had known the
new super before and held something against him. Hated him.
Bonwitt climbed the stair to consult with Crane.
* * * * *
The ethertype told them little they did not know. A few Lunar crags and
spires had toppled; crater rims had crumpled. But Earth astronomers had
no explanation and were themselves mystified. New York headquarters of
Atomic Power didn't care as long as their workings weren't wrecked. So
that was that. Crane was disgusted.
Bonwitt told him about Peterson.
"Screwy," the ethertype man agreed. "Couple of times he's wanted to
sneak out messages in private code. 'Can't do; regulations,' says I."
Bonwitt chuckled mirthlessly. "Where'd he want to ethertype?"
"Another odd thing; I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know? No address?"
"Just an off-wave call number. X2273--not listed." Crane yawned.
"The crook!" exploded the young Chief. "Got to snag him."
"I've been trying to. Thought you'd get wise soon, Bill."