"Kind of. Who wouldn't be?"
"Well, don't let it throw you. They've never been here on the Moon.
They don't know what it's like. All they're trying to do is get a good
man to stay on the job a while longer."
"_All_ they're trying to do," Chapman said sarcastically. "They've got
a fat chance."
"They think you've found a home here," Donley said.
"Why the hell don't you guys shut up until morning?" Dahl was awake,
looking bitter. "Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of
us aren't going back today."
No, Chapman thought, some of us aren't going back. You aren't. And
Dixon's staying, too. Only Dixon isn't ever going back.
Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl's bunk, held a finger to his lips,
and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day
for breakfast duty.
The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last
day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they'd be relieved by members
of the Third research group and they'd be on their way back to Earth.
And that includes me, Chapman thought. I'm going home. I'm finally
going home.
He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was
morning--the Moon's "morning"--and he shivered slightly. The rays of
the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows
shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in
a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the
Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.
A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small
mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of
small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still
see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered
about the grave. It had been more than eighteen months ago, but there
was no wind to wear those tracks away. They'd be there forever.
That's what happened to guys like Dixon, Chapman thought. On the Moon,
one mistake could use up your whole quota of chances.
Klein came back with the coffee. Chapman took a cup, gagged, and forced
himself to swallow the rest of it. It had been in the can for so long
you could almost taste the glue on the label.
* * * * *
Donley was warming himself over his cup, looking thoughtful. Dowden and
Bening were struggling into their suits, getting ready to go outside.
Dahl was still sitting on his hammock, trying to ignore them.
"Think we ought to radio the space station and see if they've left
there yet?" Klein asked.
"I talked to them on the last call," Chapman said. "The relief ship
left there twelve hours ago. They should get here"--he looked at his
watch--"in about six and a half hours."
"Chap, you know, I've been thinking," Donley said quietly. "You've
been here just twice as long as the rest of us. What's the first thing
you're going to do once you get back?"
It hit them, then. Dowden and Bening looked blank for a minute and
blindly found packing cases to sit on. The top halves of their suits
were still hanging on the bulkhead. Klein lowered his coffee cup and
looked grave. Even Dahl glanced up expectantly.
"I don't know," Chapman said slowly. "I guess I was trying not to think
of that. I suppose none of us have. We've been like little kids who
have waited so long for Christmas that they just can't believe it when
it's finally Christmas Eve."
Klein nodded in agreement. "I haven't been here three years like you
have, but I think I know what you mean." He warmed up to it as the idea
sank in. "Just what the hell _are_ you going to do?"
"Nothing very spectacular," Chapman said, smiling. "I'm going to rent
a room over Times Square, get a recording of a rikky-tik piano, and
drink and listen to the music and watch the people on the street below.
Then I think I'll see somebody."
"Who's the somebody?" Donley asked.