Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of
the Moon Station's existence. But there came
the day when his comrades found that the worth
of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories March 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The audiophone buzzed thrice--one long, followed by two shorts--and
Isobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.
"Hummm?" he said absent-mindedly.
The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commander
appeared.
"Report ready, Jones?"
"Almost," acknowledged Isobar gloomily. "It prob'ly ain't right,
though. How anybody can be expected to get _anything_ right on this
dagnabbed hunk o' green cheese--"
"Send it up," interrupted Colonel Eagan, "as soon as you can. Sparks is
making Terra contact now. That is all."
"That ain't all!" declared Isobar indignantly. "How about my bag--?"
It _was all_, so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talking
to himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, "Nuts!" and returned to
his duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word "Clear" which,
six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: _Cond. of
Obs._ He noted the proper figures under the headings _Sun Spots_: _Max
Freq._--_Min. Freq._; then he sketched careful curves in blue and red
ink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily work
sheet.
This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,
frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, and
began writing.
"_Weather forecast for Terra_," he wrote, his pen making scratching
sounds.
The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answered
without looking.
"O.Q.," he said wearily. "O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a couple
o' minutes. Keep your pants on!"
"I--er--I beg your pardon, Isobar?" queried a mild voice.
Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. He
blinked nervously.
"Oh, jumpin' jimminy!" he gulped. "_You_, Miss Sally! Golly--'scuse me!
I didn't realize--"
The Dome Commander's niece giggled.
"That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weather
in Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,
but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice."
"It is," promised Isobar. "It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.
Fine sunshiny weather. You can go."
"That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar."
"Don't mention it, ma'am," said Isobar, and returned to his work.
South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined the
meteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of his
job. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he saw
himself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrain
rendered possible.
* * * * *
If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones--known better as "Isobar"
to his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna--was a long, long
way from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been for
six tedious Earth months, beneath the _impervite_ hemisphere of Lunar
III--that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,
teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.
"Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months!" thought Isobar, "Locked up
in an airtight Dome like--like a goldfish in a glass bowl!" Sunlight?
Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could not
burn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of a
toad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,
reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.
Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when he
signed on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routine
existence.
"A pain!" declared Isobar Jones. "That's what it is; a pain in the
stummick. Not even allowed to--Yeah?"
It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,
"Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?"
"Done," said Isobar. "I was just gettin' the sheets together for you."
"O.Q. But just bring _it_. Nothing else."
Isobar bridled.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack of
yours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you."
Isobar said defiantly, "It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And I
guess I can play it if I want to--"
"Not," said Sparks emphatically, "in _my_ cubby! I've got sensitive
eardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rolling
quick today. Big doings up here."
"Yeah? What?"
"Well, it's Roberts and Brown--"
"What about 'em?"
"They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs."
"Lucky stiffs!" commented Isobar ruefully.
"Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe--if they should meet any Grannies. Well,
scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes."
"Be right up," promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from his
cloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.
He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.
Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finally
turned to him in sheer exasperation.
"Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in your
britches?"
Isobar said, "H-huh? Oh, you mean--Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbe
you wouldn't mind if I--well--er--"
"I get it!" Sparks grinned. "Want to play peekaboo while the contact's
open, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!"
He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host of
incomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate before
him cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciating
with painstaking clarity:
"Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,
Luna? Can you hear--?"
"I can not only hear you," snorted Riley, "I can see you and smell you,
as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!"
The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace of
displeasure.
"Oh, it's _you_? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?"
"Sure," said Riley agreeably. "I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,
the cosmic comedian--didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,
oyster-puss; here's the weather report." He read it. "'_Weather
forecast for Terra, week of May 15-21_--'"
"Ask him," whispered Isobar eagerly. "Sparks, don't forget to ask him!"
* * * * *
Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,
entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, and
dictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:
"That is all," he concluded.
"O.Q.," verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, prodded
Riley's shoulder.
"Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!"
"Oh, cut jets, will you?" snapped Sparks. The Terra operator looked
startled.
"How's that? I didn't say a word--"
"Don't be a dope," said Sparks, "you dope! I wasn't talking to you.
I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do me
a favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out a
window?"
"What? Why--why, yes, but--"
"Without buts," said Sparks grumpily. "Yours not to reason why; yours
but to do or don't. Will you do it?"
"Well, sure. But I don't understand--" The silver platter which had
mirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled the
inconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spun
briefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthly
landscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... green
trees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...
people....
"Enough?" asked Sparks.
Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly he
nodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the other
radioman, "O.Q., pal," he said. "Cut!"
"Cut!" agreed the other. The plate blanked out.
"Thanks, Sparks," said Isobar.
"Nothing," shrugged Riley "_He twisted_ the mike; not me. But--how come
you always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,
Jonesy? Homesick?"
"Sort of," admitted Isobar guiltily.
"Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another six
months at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd only
make you feel worse to see Earth."
"It ain't Earth I'm homesick for," explained Isobar. "It's--well, it's
the things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers and
trees."
Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.
"We've got _them_ right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,
Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,
greenest little valley you ever saw."
"I know," complained Isobar. "And that's what makes it even worse. All
that pretty, soft, green stuff Outside--and we ain't allowed to go out
in it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to--"
"To," interrupted a crisp voice, "what?"
Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome Commander
Eagan. He squirmed.
"N-nothing, sir. I was only saying--"
"I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!
It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases of
absolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts to
go, for example--"
"Any word from them yet, sir?" asked Sparks eagerly.
"Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!
Where are _you_ going?"
"Why--why, just back to my quarters, sir."
"That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?"
Isobar said stubbornly, "Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for a
while--"
"I thought that, too. And with _what_, pray, Jones?"
"With the only dratted thing," said Isobar, suddenly petulant, "that
gives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe."
* * * * *
Commander Eagan said, "You'd better find some new way of amusing
yourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?"