"Well, I'm going to do something practical. First of all, I want to
turn over all my geological samples to the government. Then I'm going
to sell my life story to the movies and then--why, then, I think I'll
get drunk!"
Everybody laughed and Chapman turned to Klein.
"How about you, Julius?"
Klein looked solemn. "Like Dick, I'll first get rid of my obligations
to the expedition. Then I think I'll go home and see my wife."
They were quiet. "I thought all members of the groups were supposed to
be single," Donley said.
"They are. And I can see their reasons for it. But who could pass up
the money the Commission was paying?"
"If I had to do it all over again? Me," said Donley promptly.
They laughed. Somebody said: "Go play your record, Chap. Today's the
day for it."
The phonograph was a small, wind-up model that Chapman had smuggled in
when he had landed with the First group. The record was old and the
shellac was nearly worn off, but the music was good.
Way Back Home by Al Lewis.
* * * * *
They ran through it twice. They were beginning to feel it now, Chapman
thought. They were going to go home in a little while and the idea was
just starting to sink in.
"You know, Chap," Donley said, "it won't seem like the same old Moon
without you on it. Why, we'll look at it when we're out spooning or
something and it just won't have the same old appeal."
"Like they say in the army," Bening said, "you never had it so good.
You found a home here."
The others chimed in and Chapman grinned. Yesterday or a week ago they
couldn't have done it. He had been there too long and he had hated it
too much.
The party quieted down after a while and Dowden and Bening finished
getting into their suits. They still had a section of the sky to map
before they left. Donley was right after them. There was an outcropping
of rock that he wanted a sample of and some strata he wished to
investigate.
And the time went faster when you kept busy.
Chapman stopped them at the lock. "Remember to check your suits for
leaks," he warned. "And check the valves of your oxygen tanks."
Donley looked sour. "I've gone out at least five hundred times," he
said, "and you check me each time."
"And I'd check you five hundred more," Chapman said. "It takes only
one mistake. And watch out for blisters under the pumice crust. You go
through one of those and that's it, brother."
Donley sighed. "Chap, you watch us like an old mother hen. You see we
check our suits, you settle our arguments, you see that we're not bored
and that we stay healthy and happy. I think you'd blow our noses for us
if we caught cold. But some day, Chap old man, you're gonna find out
that your little boys can watch out for themselves!"
But he checked his suit for leaks and tested the valve of his tank
before he left.
Only Klein and Chapman were left in the bunker. Klein was at the work
table, carefully labeling some lichen specimens.
"I never knew you were married," Chapman said.
Klein didn't look up. "There wasn't much sense in talking about it. You
just get to thinking and wanting--and there's nothing you can do about
it. You talk about it and it just makes it worse."
"She let you go without any fuss, huh?"
"No, she didn't make any fuss. But I don't think she liked to see me
go, either." He laughed a little. "At least I hope she didn't."
* * * * *
They were silent for a while. "What do you miss most, Chap?" Klein
asked. "Oh, I know what we said a little while ago, but I mean
seriously."
Chapman thought a minute. "I think I miss the sky," he said quietly.
"The blue sky and the green grass and trees with leaves on them that
turn color in the Fall. I think, when I go back, that I'd like to go
out in a rain storm and strip and feel the rain on my skin."
He stopped, feeling embarrassed. Klein's expression was encouraging.
"And then I think I'd like to go downtown and just watch the shoppers
on the sidewalks. Or maybe go to a burlesque house and smell the cheap
perfume and the popcorn and the people sweating in the dark."
He studied his hands. "I think what I miss most is people--all kinds
of people. Bad people and good people and fat people and thin people,
and people I can't understand. People who wouldn't know an atom from an
artichoke. And people who wouldn't give a damn. We're a quarter of a
million miles from nowhere, Julius, and to make it literary, I think I
miss my fellow man more than anything."
"Got a girl back home?" Klein asked almost casually.
"Yes."
"You're not like Dahl. You've never mentioned it."
"Same reason you didn't mention your wife. You get to thinking about
it."
Klein flipped the lid on the specimen box. "Going to get married when
you get back?"
Chapman was at the port again, staring out at the bleak landscape. "We
hope to."
"Settle down in a small cottage and raise lots of little Chapmans, eh?"
Chapman nodded.
"That's the only future," Klein said.
He put away the box and came over to the port. Chapman moved over so
they both could look out.
"Chap." Klein hesitated a moment. "What happened to Dixon?"
"He died," Chapman said. "He was a good kid, all wrapped up in science.
Being on the Moon was the opportunity of a lifetime. He thought so much
about it that he forgot a lot of little things--like how to stay alive.
The day before the Second group came, he went out to finish some work
he was interested in. He forgot to check for leaks and whether or not
the valve on his tank was all the way closed. We couldn't get to him in
time."
"He had his walkie-talkie with him?"
"Yes. It worked fine, too. We heard everything that went through his
mind at the end."
Klein's face was blank. "What's your real job here, Chap? Why does
somebody have to stay for stopover?"
"Hell, lots of reasons, Julius. You can't get a whole relief crew and
let them take over cold. They have to know where you left off. They
have to know where things are, how things work, what to watch out for.
And then, because you've been here a year and a half and know the
ropes, you have to watch them to see that they stay alive in spite of
themselves. The Moon's a new environment and you have to learn how to
live in it. There's a lot of things to learn--and some people just
never learn."
"You're nursemaid, then."
"I suppose you could call it that."
* * * * *