"You think you can land here with whatever you've got, man? There's no
way of knowing how contagious it is. And keep an hourly check with us.
If you pass out, we'll try to get someone out in a Moon rocket to pick
you up. But we can't risk danger of infecting the whole planet. You're
quarantined on the Moon--we'll send up landing instructions later--not
even for Luna Base, but where there will be no chance of contamination
for others. You didn't really expect to come back here, did you, Adams?"
He should have thought of it. He knew that. And he knew that the words
from Earth weren't as callous as they sounded. Down there, men would
be sweating with him, going crazy trying to do something. But they were
right. Earth had to be protected first; Bill Adams was only one out of
two and a half billions, even if he had reached a planet before any
other man.
Yeah, it was fine to be a hero. But heroes shouldn't menace the rest of
the world.
Logically, he knew they were right. That helped him get his emotions
under control. "Where do you want me to put down?"
"Tycho. It isn't hard to spot for radar-controlled delivery of
supplies to you, but it's a good seven hundred miles from Lunar Base.
And look--we'll try to get a doctor to you. But keep us informed if
anything slips. We need those maps, if we can find a way to sterilize
'em."
"Okay," he acknowledged. "And tell the cartographers there are no
craters, no intelligence, and only plants about half an inch high. Mars
stinks."
They'd already been busy, he saw, as he teetered down on his jets for a
landing on Tycho. Holding control was the hardest job he'd ever done.
A series of itchings cropped out just as the work got tricky, when he
could no longer see the surface, and had to go by feel. But somehow he
made it. Then he relaxed and began an orgy of scratching.
And he'd thought there was something romantic about being a hero!
The supplies that had already been sent up by the superfast unmanned
missiles would give him something to do, at least. He moved back the
two feet needed to reach his developing tanks and went through the
process of spraying and gargling. It was soothing enough while it went
on, but it offered only momentary help.
Then his stomach began showing distress signs. He fought against it,
tightening up. It did no good. His hasty breakfast of just black coffee
wanted to come up--and did, giving him barely time to make the little
booth.
He washed his mouth out and grabbed for the radar key, banging out a
report on this. The doctors must have been standing by down at the big
station, because there was only a slight delay before the answering
signal came: "Any blood?"
Another knot added itself to his intestines. "I don't know--don't think
so, but I didn't look."
"Look, next time. We're trying to get this related to some of the
familiar diseases. It must have some relation--there are only so many
ways a man can be sick. We've got a doctor coming over, Adams. None
on the Moon, but we're shipping him through. He'll set down in about
nine hours. And there's some stuff to take on the supply missiles. May
not help, but we're trying a mixture of the antibiotics. Also some ACS
and anodynes for the itching and rash. Hope they work. Let us know any
reaction."
Bill cut off. He'd have to try. They were as much in the dark about
this as he was, but they had a better background for guessing and trial
and error. And if the bugs in him happened to like tachiomycetin, he
wouldn't be too much worse off. Damn it, _had_ there been blood?
He forced his mind off it, climbed into his clothes and then into the
spacesuit that hung from the grapples. It moved automatically into
position, the two halves sliding shut and sealing from outside. The big
gloves on his hands were too clumsy for such operations.
Then he went bounding across the Moon. Halfway to the supplies he felt
the itching come back, and he slithered and wriggled around, trying
to scratch his skin against his clothing. It didn't help much. He was
sweating harder, and his eyes were watering. He manipulated the little
visor-cleaning gadget, trying to poke his face forward to brush the
frustration tears from his eyes. He couldn't quite reach it.
There were three supply missiles, each holding about two hundred
pounds, Earth weight. He tied them together and slung them over his
back, heading toward his ship. Here they weighed only a hundred pounds,
and with his own weight and the suit added, the whole load came to
little more than his normal weight on Earth.
He tried shifting the supplies around on his back, getting them to
press against the spots of torment as he walked. It simply unbalanced
him, without really relieving the itching. Fortunately, though, his
eyes were clearing a little. He gritted his teeth and fought back
through the powdery pumice surface, kicking up clouds of dust that
settled slowly but completely--though the gravity was low, there was no
air to hold them up.
Nothing had ever looked better than the airlock of the ship. He let the
grapples hook the suit off him as soon as the outer seal was shut and
went into a whirling dervish act. Aches and pains could be stood--but
_itching_!
Apparently, though, the spray and gargle had helped a little, since
his nose felt somewhat clearer and his eyes were definitely better. He
repeated them, and then found the medical supplies, with a long list of
instructions.
They were really shooting the pharmacy at him. He injected himself,
swallowed things, rubbed himself down with others, and waited. Whatever
they'd given him didn't offer any immediate help. He began to feel
worse. But on contacting Earth by radar, he was assured that that might
be expected.
"We've got another missile coming, with metal foil for the maps and
photos--plus a small copying camera. You can print them right on the
metal, seal that in a can, and leave it for the rocket that's bringing
the doctor. The pilot will blast over it--that should sterilize it--and
pick it up when it cools."
Bill swore, but he was in his suit when the missile landed, heading out
across the pumice-covered wastes toward it. The salves had helped the
itching a little, but not much. And his nose had grown worse again.
He jockeyed the big supply can out of the torpedo-shaped missile,
packed it on his back, and headed for his ship. The itching was acting
up as he sweated--this made a real load, about like packing a hundred
bulky pounds over his normal Earth weight through the soft drift of the
pumice. But his nose was clearing again; it was apparently becoming
cyclic. He'd have to relay that information back to the medics. And
where were they getting a doctor crazy enough to take a chance with him?
He climbed out of the suit and went through the ritual of scratching,
noticing that his fever had gone up, and that his muscles were shaking.
His head seemed light, as if he were in for a spell of dizziness.
They'd be interested in that, back on Earth, though it wouldn't do much
good. He couldn't work up a clinical attitude about himself. All he
wanted was a chance to get over this disease before it killed him.
He dragged out the photo and copying equipment, under a red light.
It filled what little space was left in his cubbyhole cabin. Then he
swore, gulping down more of the pills where they were waiting for him.
The metal sheets were fine. They were excellent. The only thing wrong
was that they wouldn't fit his developing trays--and they were tough
enough to give him no way of cutting them to size.
He stuffed them back in their container and shoved it into the
airlock. Then his stomach kicked up again. He couldn't see any blood in
the result, but he couldn't be sure--the color of the pills might hide
traces. He flushed it down, his head turning in circles, and went to
the radar. This time he didn't even wait for a reply; let them worry
about their damned maps. They could send cutting equipment with the
doctor and pick up the things later. They could pick up his corpse and
cremate it at the same time, for all he cared right now.
He yanked out his bunk and slumped into it, curling up as much as the
itching would permit. And finally, for the first time in over fifty
hours, he managed to doze off, though his sleep was full of nightmares.
It was the sound of the bull-throated chemical rocket that brought him
out of it--the sound traveling along the surface through the
rocks and up through the metal ship, even without air to carry it.
He could feel the rumble of its takeoff later, but he waited long after
that for the doctor. There was no knock on the port. Finally he pulled
himself up from the bunk, sweating and shaken, and looked out.
The doctor was there--or at least a man in a spacesuit was. But
somebody had been in a hurry for volunteers, and given the man no
basic training at all. The figure would pull itself erect, make a few
strides that were all bounce and no progress, and then slide down into
the pumice. Moon-walking was tricky until you learned how.
Bill sighed, scratching unconsciously, and made his way somehow out to
his suit, climbing into it. He paused for a final good scratch, and
then the grapples took over. This time, he stumbled also as he made his
way across the powdery rubble. But the other man was making no real
progress at all.
Bill reached him, and touched helmets long enough to issue simple
instructions through metal sound conduction. Then he managed to guide
the other's steps; there had been accounts of the days of learning
spent by the first men on the Moon, but it wasn't that bad with an
instructor to help. The doctor picked up as they went along. Bill's
legs were buckling under him by then, and the itches were past
endurance. At the end, the doctor was helping him. But somehow they
made the ship, and were getting out of the suits--Bill first, then the
doctor, using the grapples under Bill's guidance.
The doctor was young, and obviously scared, but fighting his fear. He'd
been picked for his smallness to lighten the load on the chemical
rocket, and his little face was intent. But he managed a weak grin.
"Thanks, Adams. I'm Doctor Ames--Ted to you. Get onto that cot. You're
about out on your feet."
The test he made didn't take long, but his head was shaking at the
conclusion.
"Your symptoms make no sense," he summarized. "I've got a feeling some
are due to one thing, some to another. Maybe we'll have to wait until I
come down with it and compare notes."
His grin was wry, but Bill was vaguely glad that he wasn't trying
any bedside manner. There wasn't much use in thanking the man for
volunteering--Ames had known what he was up against, and he might be
scared, but his courage was above thanks.
"What about the maps?" Bill asked. "They tell you?"
"They've left cutters outside. I started to bring them. Then the pumice
got me--I couldn't stand upright in it. They'll pick up the maps later,
but they're important. The competing ships will claim our territory if
we don't file first."
He knocked the dust off his instrument, and wiped his hands. Bill
looked down at the bed to see a fine film of Moon silt there. They'd
been bringing in too much on the suits--it was too fine, and the traps
weren't getting it fast enough.
He got up shakily, moving toward the dust trap that had been running
steadily. But now it was out of order, obviously, with the fur brushes
worn down until they could generate almost no static against the rod.
He groped into the supplies, hoping there would be replacements.
Ames caught his arm. "Cut it out, Adams. You're in no shape for this.
Hey, how long since you've eaten?"