"No, you should know that. I came as the pilot of the first ship. We
made the bunker out of parts of the ship so there wasn't anything to
go back on. I'm a good mechanic and I made myself useful with the
machinery. When it occurred to us that somebody was going to have to
stay over, I volunteered. I thought the others were so important that
it was better they should take their samples and data back to Earth
when the first relief ship came."
"You wouldn't do it again, though, would you?"
"No, I wouldn't."
"Do you think Dahl will do as good a job as you've done here?"
Chapman frowned. "Frankly, I hadn't thought of that. I don't believe
I care. I've put in my time; it's somebody else's turn now. He
volunteered for it. I think I was fair in explaining all about the job
when you talked it over among yourselves."
"You did, but I don't think Dahl's the man for it. He's too young, too
much of a kid. He volunteered because he thought it made him look like
a hero. He doesn't have the judgment that an older man would have. That
you have."
Chapman turned slowly around and faced Klein.
"I'm not the indispensable man," he said slowly, "and even if I was, it
wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm sorry if Dahl is young. So was
I. I've lost three years up here. And I don't intend to lose any more."
Klein held up his hands. "Look, Chap, I didn't mean you should stay. I
know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It's just--"
His voice trailed away. "It's just that I think it's such a damn
important job."
Klein had gone out in a last search for rock lichens and Chapman
enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over
to his bunk and opened his barracks bag. He checked the underwear and
his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed
the clothing down farther in the canvas. It was foolish because the
bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling
it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a
week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred
its meager belongings to the bag.
He hadn't actually needed to pack, of course. In less than twenty-four
hours he'd be back on Earth where he could drown himself in toothpaste
and buy more tee shirts than he could wear in a lifetime. He could
leave behind his shorts and socks and the outsize shirts he had
inherited from--who was it? Driesbach?--of the First group. Dahl could
probably use them or maybe one of the boys in the Third.
* * * * *
But it wasn't like going home unless you packed. It was part of the
ritual, like marking off the last three weeks in pencil on the gray
steel of the bulkhead beside his hammock. Just a few hours ago, when he
woke up, he had made the last check mark and signed his name and the
date. His signature was right beneath Dixon's.
He frowned when he thought of Dixon and slid back the catch on the top
of the bag and locked it. They should never have sent a kid like Dixon
to the Moon.
He had just locked the bag when he heard the rumble of the airlock and
the soft hiss of air. Somebody had come back earlier than expected. He
watched the inner door swing open and the spacesuited figure clump in
and unscrew its helmet.
Dahl. He had gone out to help Dowden on the Schmidt telescope. Maybe
Dowden hadn't needed any help, with Bening along. Or more likely,
considering the circumstances, Dahl wasn't much good at helping anybody
today.
Dahl stripped off his suit. His face was covered with light beads of
sweat and his eyes were frightened.
He moistened his lips slightly. "Do--do you think they'll ever have
relief ships up here more often than every eighteen months, Chap? I
mean, considering the advance of--"
"No," Chapman interrupted bluntly. "I don't. Not at least for ten
years. The fuel's too expensive and the trip's too hazardous. On
freight charges alone you're worth your weight in platinum when they
send you here. Even if it becomes cheaper, Bob, it won't come about
so it will shorten stopover right away." He stopped, feeling a little
sorry for Dahl. "It won't be too bad. There'll be new men up here and
you'll pass a lot of time getting to know them."
"Well, you see," Dahl started, "that's why I came back early. I wanted
to see you about stopover. It's that--well, I'll put it this way." He
seemed to be groping for an easy way to say what he wanted to. "I'm
engaged back home. Really nice girl, Chap, you'd like her if you knew
her." He fumbled in his pocket and found a photograph and put it on
the desk. "That's a picture of Alice, taken at a picnic we were on
together." Chapman didn't look. "She--we--expected to be married when
I got back. I never told her about stopover, Chap. She thinks I'll be
home tomorrow. I kept thinking, hoping, that maybe somehow--"
He was fumbling it badly, Chapman thought.
"You wanted to trade places with me, didn't you, Bob? You thought I
might stay for stopover again, in your place?"
It hurt to look in Dahl's eyes. They were the eyes of a man who was
trying desperately to stop what he was about to do, but just couldn't
help himself.
"Well, yes, more or less. Oh, God, Chap, I know you want to go home!
But I couldn't ask any of the others; you were the only one who could,
the only one who was qualified!"
* * * * *
Dahl looked as though he was going to be sick. Chapman tried to recall
all he knew about him. Dahl, Robert. Good mathematician. Graduate from
one of the Ivy League schools. Father was a manufacturer of stoves or
something.
It still didn't add, not quite. "You know I don't like it here any more
than you do," Chapman said slowly. "I may have commitments at home,
too. What made you think I would change my mind?"
Dahl took the plunge. "Well, you see," he started eagerly, too far gone
to remember such a thing as pride, "you know my father's pretty well
fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap." He was feverish. "It
would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they'd be well-paid months!"
Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly
evaporating.
"If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,"
he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. "It'll
be too late after the relief ship leaves. It'll be easier to give the
captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here."
He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for
anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this.
It would eat at him like a cancer.
Cowardice is the one thing for which no man ever forgives himself.
* * * * *
Donley was eating a sandwich and looking out the port, so, naturally,
he saw the ship first. "Well, whaddya know!" he shouted. "We got
company!" He dashed for his suit. Dowden and Bening piled after him and
all three started for the lock.
Chapman was standing in front of it. "Check your suits," he said
softly. "Just be sure to check."
"Oh, what the hell, Chap!" Donley started angrily. Then he shut up and
went over his suit. He got to his tank and turned white. Empty. It was
only half a mile to the relief rocket, so somebody would probably have
got to him in time, but.... He bit his lips and got a full tank.
Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the
tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The
port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the
ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short
jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman
noticed one--it was probably Donley--pat the ship affectionately before
he started back.
They were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in
the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and
solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on
their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second
group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.
Donley and the others were all over them.
* * * * *
How was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still
teaching at the university? What was the international situation?
Was the sky still blue, was the grass still green, did the leaves still
turn color in the autumn, did people still love and cry and were there
still people who didn't know what an atom was and didn't give a damn?
Chapman had gone through it all before. But was Ginny still Ginny?
Some of the men in the Third had their luggage with them. One of
them--a husky, red-faced kid named Williams--was opening a box about a
foot square and six inches deep. Chapman watched him curiously.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Klein said. "Hey, guys, look what we've got
here!"
Chapman and the others crowded around and suddenly Donley leaned over
and took a deep breath. In the box, covering a thick layer of ordinary
dirt, was a plot of grass. They looked at it, awed. Klein put out his
hand and laid it on top of the grass.
"I like the feel of it," he said simply.
Chapman cut off a single blade with his fingernail and put it between
his lips. It had been years since he had seen grass and had the luxury
of walking on it and lying on its cool thickness during those sultry
summer nights when it was too hot to sleep indoors.
Williams blushed. "I thought we could spare a little water for it and
maybe use the ultraviolet lamp on it some of the time. Couldn't help
but bring it along; it seemed sort of like a symbol...." He looked
embarrassed.
Chapman sympathized. If he had had any sense, he'd have tried to
smuggle something like that up to the Moon instead of his phonograph.
"That's valuable grass," Dahl said sharply. "Do you realize that at
current freight rates up here, it's worth about ten dollars a blade?"