stained, hurried over the field with the intensity of marauder ants.

"There will be no smoking in the fueling area," the loud-speakers blared, their metallic voices loud and strident. "Repeat. There will be no smoking in the fueling area."

Ted's eyes roved over the field, picking up clusters of men and vehicles, following moving lines of equipment and testing gear. Like hungry insects drawn to a fallen morsel of food, the men and the machines moved steadily toward a towering perpendicular form that sharply jutted up into the blue.

Ted's heart gave a sudden leap again, the way it did every time he thought of the spaceport and the three-stage rocket. He was here. He was really here on Johnston Island, far out in the Pacific, far from home and the Space Academy. And in just a little while, he would board that rocket.

A grin worked its way onto his face, and he passed a nervous hand over the bridge of his nose. He looked around him, caught up in the frantic movement of the island, yet wishing there were someone he could talk to. The excitement bubbled up inside him like a seething volcano, and he wanted to stop one of the hurrying men and shout, "Hey! I'm going up to the Space Station. Me, Ted Baker. What do you think of that?"

The figures hurried past, intent on their separate jobs, rushing toward the enormous rocket on the edge of the field. The blasting pits, heat-scorched holes dug deep into the concrete, stretched before him like a row of discolored pockmarks that led to the ship itself.

His eyes studied the sleek outlines of the ship, and the grin magically popped onto his face again. She was a beauty, all right, a dream materialized in metal.

She sat over the blasting pit, her stabilizer fins straddling the discolored depression in the ground. She looked like an enormous spear, squat and wide at the bottom, and tapering up to a finely pointed nose. Close to that nose, she wore a pair of slanted wings; and below these, a third of the way down the side of the ship, was another, larger pair of wings. Ted knew her dimensions well. He'd studied them and restudied them at the Academy for the past three years.

He almost laughed aloud as he remembered old Colonel York, with his beady eyes and sharply curving nose. The colonel would rap on his desk with the plastic tip of his riding crop and bellow, "Overall length, Baker! What's the overall length?"

"Two hundred and sixty-five feet, sir," Ted had always replied. He knew the figures as well as he knew his own age. But they had been only figures until just a little while ago. He'd known, of course, that two hundred and sixty-five feet were a heck of a lot of feet. But he had never formed a real concept of just what the three-stage looked like.

Even when the colonel had cleared his throat and shouted, "The base is sixty-five feet in diameter, gentlemen. Sixty-five feet. This is a rocket, gentlemen, not a toy. This is the machine that will take you to the Space Station in your senior year," even then Ted had only vaguely pictured it.

No, nothing but a look at the three-stage could really explain it. She was huge, truly huge, taller than a high building, and just as solid-looking. She weighed fourteen million pounds, the figures said, seven thousand tons of metal and engines and equipment that would supply the power for the escape from Earth.

She was definitely not a toy.

She sat complacently on the horizon now, her fueling hoses winding around her like rubbery snakes. She drank thirstily, and the coveralled men scurried around her like obedient hand-servants. Ted watched her, the excitement climbing in his blood. He turned away then, sighed deeply, and began walking toward the commissary with long, full strides. The wind, blowing fresh over the Pacific, lifted the sandy strands of his hair, tossing them back against his forehead. He was a tall boy, with wide shoulders wedging down to a narrow waist. His eyes were blue, a deeper, darker blue than the sky above, and his nose was straight, plunging down to a narrow-lipped mouth. When his face was at rest, he looked extremely serious, almost too serious for a seventeen-year-old. But when he smiled, his whole face seemed to erupt into brilliance, and his eyes sparkled to match the even flash of his teeth.

He was serious now as he walked, head bent, to the commissary. His eyes appraised the long, low, clean-looking lines of the building. He quickened his pace and passed through the electric eye trigger across the door jamb. The large glass, double doors swung wide, and he walked into the interior of the building. He felt the cool blast of the air-conditioning unit at once, and mused that it felt more like September inside than it did outside. He still couldn't get used to the idea of September without leaves turning russet and brown, without the brisk winds of autumn tickling the back of his neck. It was only with great effort that he could remember he was out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, ready to board a rocket that would carry him 1,075 miles above the Earth.

A chill of apprehension wormed its way up his back again, and he knew it wasn't caused by the air-conditioning system. He sought out the food counter and began crossing the noisy room. Here, as outside, everyone seemed to be in a hurry. There was a more playful, relaxed atmosphere here, but there was still the feeling that everything had to be done fast or not at all. He was walking toward the food counter when the voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Ted! Ted Baker!"

He whirled rapidly, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces milling around the counter. Now who . . . ? "Over here, boy. Here!"

Ted's eyebrows climbed onto his forehead, and his teeth showed in a wide grin. "Jack! Well, for crying out loud. What ..."

"Come on over, boy," Jack called. Ted gestured impatiently, surprise and happiness mingled on his face. He shouldered his way through the crowd, nimbly dodging balanced trays and hurrying figures. He reached the food counter at last, smiled happily and held out an eager hand.

"Boy, this is a surprise," he said, pumping Jack's free hand. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm going up to the Space Station," Jack replied. He held his tray balanced on his left hand as he moved along the counter. He was slightly taller than

Ted, a little broader across the chest and shoulders. His arms were heavy and muscular, curling with red hair that matched the flaming crest atop his head. His gray eyes were set on either side of a freckle-spattered nose, and he had full lips that tilted impishly. "You want something to eat?" he asked.

"No, no," Ted said. "Boy, it's good to see you."

He moved alongside Jack as the other boy made his way down the counter, picking up a large slab of chocolate cake and a glass of milk. He was really happy to have found Jack among all these strangers, and he kept smiling as he watched Jack pay the cashier. Jack joined him, and they crossed the room, finding an unoccupied table in a far corner.

Jack put his tray down and pulled up a chair. "There," he said.

Ted sat opposite him, pulling his chair close to the table. "You know," he said, "I guess I didn't hear you right. You didn't say you were going up to the Station, did you?"

Jack sliced a large piece of cake, scooped it onto his fork, and stuffed it into his mouth. "Yep."

"But how come? You've already been there. I mean, you were graduated from the Academy last year, weren't you?"

Jack shoveled another piece of cake into his mouth. Yep.

Ted tried again. "Does your speciality involve further training at the Station?" "Nope."

Ted scratched his jaw and sighed, cocking one eyebrow. "I guess you're not feeling very talkative." A smile tilted the corners of Jack's mouth, and his gray eyes narrowed. Somehow, Ted didn't like the smile. It was more like a superior smirk, a condescending pat on the head for a curious little boy. The smile troubled him, but he tried to tell himself he was wrong. After all, he'd known Jack quite well at the Academy, even though the older boy had been a term ahead of him.

"Is it some kind of secret?" he asked. "Your going up there, I mean?"

"I suppose I can tell you," Jack said, shrugging his broad shoulders. He picked up the glass of milk and half drained it. Ted watched, then fidgeted uncomfortably as he waited for Jack to begin. Instead, Jack turned to the chocolate cake again, seemingly fascinated by it.

Ted let out an exasperated sigh. "Look, Jack," he began, "if you're going to tell me, then I wish . . ."

"I'm going to the Moon," Jack interrupted calmly.

Ted stopped speaking abruptly as the full impact of Jack's words hit him. He clamped his jaws shut, and his eyes opened wide. When speech returned, he could only manage a stammering "Wh-wh-w/iat?"

Jack smiled his superior smile again, and shoved the cake plate away from him. "You heard me."

"The Moon, you said?"

"The Moon." Jack nodded calmly.

Ted leaned across the table, lowering his voice as if he were discussing a military secret. "The Moon? Our satellite?"

"How many moons are there?" Jack asked.

Ted studied Jack's face for a moment, and then leaned back in his chair. He waved an open palm at Jack and said, "You're kidding me."

"All right," Jack said, shrugging, "I'm kidding you." "No one's ever been to the Moon," Ted insisted, as if trying to convince himself. "I know."

The noises in the background seemed to have faded, and Ted had the strange feeling that he and Jack were sitting alone in a large vacuum, and that he was the butt of some strange joke.

"Are you really going to the Moon, Jack? Is this on the level?"

Jack's face turned serious for a moment. "I'm not kidding, Ted. I'm going up to the Station, and a rocket to Luna is waiting there."

Ted spread his hands wide in helpless wonder. "Why, that's terrific! Jack, that's wonderful! You, going to the Moon, why ..." He cut himself short and asked, "You're not going alone, are you?"

"Heck, no," Jack said, chuckling. "There'll be five of us, all told."

"But why you? I mean, the first trip to the Moon. I should think . . ."

"Well," Jack said, "there are several good reasons for my going along."

"Let's hear them." Ted leaned forward excitedly. "Brother, you must be in seventh heaven. I can hardly sit still."

"I've gotten used to the idea by now."

"How can you ever get used to that idea?" Ted said. "It's a wonder you aren't turning cart wheels. But how come you're . . ."

"I started to explain," Jack interrupted. "My marks at the Academy were pretty high, you know."

"Sure, I know."

"In fact, I placed highest in the graduating class. That's what finally swung the deal, I suppose." "Well, that's wonderful."

"Don't get the idea that I'm just going along for the ride," Jack said quickly. "The Air Force figured an Academy man would be valuable on the expedition. All those courses in navigation, engineering, geology

"Sure," Ted agreed. "I can see where they'd come in handy."

"The idea is for me to be a sort of pinch hitter," Jack went on. "If anything goes wrong with any member of the crew, I'll be able to take his place. Except the doctor, of course."

Ted nodded wordlessly. His eyes were shining and he couldn't keep the smile off his Hps. He wanted to slap Jack on the back and congratulate him for his good fortune, carry him around the room on his shoulders.

"Then, too, there's the strictly commercial angle," Jack said. "The gimmick." "How do you mean?"

"Simple," Jack said. "Nobody gives you anything for nothing. If this trip to the Moon is successful, just about every guy and his brother will want to join the Academy—especially if an Academy grad is one of the first men to land on the Moon. Don't forget, Ted, we're going to need a lot of spacemen if this trip is successful. This may be the gateway to interplanetary flight."

Ted nodded, his face serious. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Well, the Air Force thought of it. I'm partly useful and partly pure propaganda for the Academy." He grinned and added, "Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I'd have gone along if they offered me the job of scraping the jets."

Ted laughed, and several scurrying, coveralled employees turned to look at him. "I'll bet you would have. You're getting a break any guy would . . ."

"Attention, please! Attention, please!"

Ted looked up as the loud-speaker on the wall cut through the noise in the commissary.

"Attention, please. All passengers for Rocket Ship Sugar Sugar report to blasting pit at once."

"Sugar Sugar," Ted said. "That's S.S."

"You've got it, boy," Jack said. "S.S. for Space Station."

"Repeat," the metallic voice on the speaker said. "All passengers for Rocket Ship Sugar Sugar report to blasting pit at once."

"We'd better go," Ted said, shoving his chair back.

"Relax," Jack advised, spreading his hand palm downward. "That means we've got at least fifteen minutes to blastoff."

"But shouldn't we . . ."

"Look, kid," Jack said, "they're not going to leave without us, believe me." "I know, but . . ."

"Attention, please," the speaker repeated. "Ground crews report to launching site at once. Blastoff in fifteen minutes. Repeat. Blastoff in fifteen minutes."

Jack smiled. "See?"

Activity within the commissary seemed to speed up. Chairs were shoved back rudely, coffees gulped hastily. The room began to clear as men and women

"That's all right." The captain turned his scrutiny to the papers, examining them carefully. He lifted his hat, held it in his hand as he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. He sighed, replaced his hat, and gave one last look at the papers. "These look all right," he said. He pointed to the portable elevator rig standing in place beside the tall rocket. "Just take the lift up to the control cabin."

"Thank you, sir," Ted said, pocketing his papers.

The captain nodded. "Nice trip."

"Thank you, sir." Ted restrained the urge to run to the lift. Instead, he kept his pace down to a very fast walk, Jack beside him all the way. He glanced up once to look at the rocket, fully expecting it to leap into the air without him at almost any moment.

When they reached the skeletal structure of the lift, a corporal triggered the electronic lock on the gate, and the door slid back soundlessly. They stepped into the car, their backs to the rocket.

"All set?" the corporal asked, a tired expression on his face.

"Full jets," Jack answered.

"My," the corporal said dryly, "ain't you salty?" He yawned and swung a Z-shaped handle over to the left. The quiet hum of machinery reached Ted's ears. The corporal pressed a button to slide the door of the car shut. "Hold your hats," he said.

Almost imperceptibly, the car began to rise in the open shaft. Slowly, the ground dropped from beneath them as the car began its long climb. Behind them was the blue-black hull of the three-stage, so close that Ted could have reached out to touch it. The corporal looked up once, and his features were already blurred by the distance. The guard booth was smaller now, a carton set alongside the fence. The lift kept climbing, higher, higher, and Ted could see the entire field now, the blasting pits looking like tarnished pennies on a white canvas. The radar tower had become a miniature stack of toothpicks, and the ground crew moved over the concrete like white ants. The sky spread out around them, and Ted could see the ocean, green waves lashing the white, endless stretch of the beach.

"Pretty high," he said, his voice slightly breathless. Jack grinned. "If you think this is high, wait until we reach the Station."

The lift was slowing. It glided to a smooth stop beside the air-lock door in the nose of the rocket. When they had passed through the lock and secured the toggles on the inner door, Jack led Ted to a ladder and started climbing.

"This way, lubber," he said, not unpleasantly. Ted followed Jack up the ladder, his nerves jangling against each other. They were going up to the control room, he knew, the room he'd seen a hundred times in diagrams and slide projections at the Academy. Jack disappeared through a circular opening in the overhead, and Ted followed him up. When they had passed through the hatch, Jack dropped the hatch cover, turning the wheel that would hold it tight to the deck.

"It's about time," a deep voice said. "Hi, George," Jack called. He took Ted's elbow, steering him over to the four men clustered around one of the radar panels. The man Jack had called George looked at his watch and frowned. Ted noticed the double silver bars of an Air Force captain on the wings of his collar, and he wondered about Jack's familiarity.

"Fellows," Jack said, "I'd like you to meet Ted Baker. He's going up to the Station for his senior year."

The Air Force captain took a step toward Ted and extended his hand. He was short, with black hair curling over his high forehead. His eyes were brown, and they glittered with lively intelligence. He had a somewhat long, slender nose that curved gently down to his full lips. He gave Ted the impression of an eager cocker spaniel. Ted took his hand, returning the captain's firm grip.

"My name's Merola," the captain said. "George Merola. I'm pilot and navigator of the Moon rocket." He paused. "I suppose Jack has told you all about our little trip?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm also supposed to be in charge of this jet-propelled apartment house, so perhaps we'd best make ready for blastoff."

Ted smiled, liking the man instantly.

"All right," Merola said, "let's get to the couches on the double."

As if to lend urgency to his order, the loud-speaker on the bulkhead of the ship rasped, "Blastoff in six minutes. Repeat. Blastoff in six minutes."

"Turn off that darned speaker, Jack," Merola said. "Makes me jumpy, calling off the time like a cuckoo clock."

Jack moved to the bulkhead speaker and clicked the toggle.

The pain didn't come. In its place, he felt the tremendous force clawing at the skin on his face, stretching it tight against his skull, pulling his lips back over his teeth, twisting his features into a horrible mask.

He sank deeper and deeper into the foam rubber, the roar of the rockets echoing in his ears. He tried to focus the picture in the radar screen overhead, wondering why it had suddenly become so blurred. Behind the screen, the metal overhead seemed to tilt at a crazy angle, and the cabin seemed to be growing darker. Ted's mind felt fuzzy, and he wanted to shake his head in an effort to clear the dizziness that was invading his skull. But there were tight metal bands holding his head to the couch, it seemed: formidable bands of steel that forbade movement of any kind.

The blackness struck swiftly, without warning. It seemed to grow in the center of his skull, starting as a small dot and bursting into complete blackness in the space of a heartbeat.

He didn't fight it.

He allowed it to claim his mind and his body completely as he drifted off into complacent nothingness.

It was quiet.

There was no longer the screaming wail of the jets, no longer the trembling fury of the bulkheads vibrating to the pound of the engines.

He blinked his eyes and stared up at the overhead. Tentatively, like a blind man testing his next step, Ted moved the fingers on his right hand, then the hand itself, then his arm. Across the aisle, Jack was unbuckling his safety belt and sitting up. Ted sat up, too, waved his arm, and weakly said, "Hi."

Jack grunted, swung his legs over the side of the couch, and pushed against the cushion with his arms.

Slowly, easily, like a balloon drifting over roof tops, he floated across the cabin.

For a moment, Ted forgot all his Academy learning, and his eyes opened wide in honest surprise. He almost said, "Hey, you're floating!" He realized then that the jets had probably been inactive for a long while now, and as a result, everything in the ship was weightless.

Jack cruised closer, an expression of pain still on his features, as if it had somehow been etched there when the ship started accelerating. Ted unbuckled his belt, anxious to experience the sensation of weightlessness.

"You'd better take it easy at first," Jack warned. "Most lubbers shove off so hard they crack a few ribs against the bulkheads."

Ted put his palm against the cushion and gave a small push. He floated off the couch, a delighted smile on his face.

"It feels funny," he said.

Jack nodded solicitously.

"How do I get down?" Ted wanted to know.

"Down where?" Jack asked. "You're in space, my friend. No ups or downs here, remember?"

Ted felt a slow flush seep onto his face. Jack seemed to have acquired the knack of making him feel small and foolish, and he wondered whether Jack had changed since he left the Academy, or whether he'd always been that way.

"Everybody up and kicking?" a voice asked.

Ted looked down to see Captain Merola swinging his legs over the side of the couch. The other members of the crew were beginning to stir now, and from Ted's floating vantage point, he got his first good look at them.

Dr. Gehardt sat up abruptly in the second couch on the port side. He was small and fragile-looking, with a partially bald head saved from complete nakedness by a white fringe circling the back of his skull and continuing up around his ears. Something like the rings around Saturn, Ted thought. The geologist's nose was short, a stub that perched like a button between intense brown eyes that opened wide now and stared around the cabin.

"The engines?" he asked. "Is there something wrong?"

Merola glanced up, holding tight to the cushion of his couch. "How do you mean, Doc."

Dr. Gehardt assumed a listening pose, his head cocked to one side. "There is no sound," he said at last. He shrugged as if to excuse his unfamiliarity with the workings of a rocket ship.

"Nothing to worry about," Merola assured him. "We're just in free fall."

"Fall? Does that mean . . . ?" Dr. Gehardt's brow wrinkled.

Merola smiled. "I guess it's not such a good term, Doc, in that it implies a downward motion—which isn't the case at all. We're still traveling up from Earth. 'Free fall' simply means that our rockets have been turned off."

"If I may expose my own stupidity . . ." another voice put in. Ted, floating close to the overhead looked down to see Dr. Phelps, the ship's physician, swing upright on his couch. The doctor was a thin man with an angular face and a wide, expressive mouth. He looked strangely out of his element in the baggy coveralls worn by the entire crew.

"Glad to have you with us," Merola said, grinning.

The doctor nodded. "Thank you. May I ask some questions?"

"Sure. Fire away."

"Well, have we already dropped the first two stages of the rocket?"

Lieutenant Dan Forbes shoved himself off his couch and drifted dangerously close to the radar screen. "Let me answer that one, George," he said.

Forbes was tall, with a long-limbed body amply padded with muscles that filled out his coveralls. His blond hair was cut close to his scalp, topping the browned, rugged planes of his face like a tight-fitting skullcap. He cocked one blond eyebrow over a gray eye now and said, "Well, Captain, may I?"

"Sure," Merola said. "Go ahead."

"We dropped the first two stages quite a while back, Dr. Phelps," Forbes said. "How high are we now, George?"

Merola glanced over his shoulder at the instrument panel. "Seventy-five miles."

Forbes nodded. "We dropped the first stage at— check me on these figures, George—a height of 24.9 miles." He looked at Merola. "That right?"

"Go on," Merola said.

"When we were 39.8 miles high, we cut off the second stage," Forbes said. "The third stage, the one we're in now, kept blasting until we'd reached a height of 63.5 miles."

"The Station itself has its own oxygen supply and pressure control/' Merola said, "but we'll need suits to get there from the ship."

"I see." Dr. Gehardt lifted his feet clumsily and clumped across the cabin. "Will we be there soon?" he asked.

"The entire trip takes fifty-six minutes."

Dr. Gehardt moved over to the wide plexiglass viewport that swung in a semicircle across the waist of the cabin. Outside, like scattered diamonds on a jeweler's velvet, the stars blinked at the rapidly moving ship. "This is an experience," he said, his voice strangely solemn. "To be up among the stars." He shook his head in silent wonder.

"We're going a lot higher than this," Jack put in.

The doctor turned away from the viewport and sighed deeply, almost as if Jack had broken his mood. "Yes, yes," he agreed. "We will go much higher." He glanced once more at the stars and added, "Man will always go much higher. This is our destiny."

A strange silence seemed to shoulder its way into the cabin. Merola passed a hand over his upper lip and looked out through the viewport. Forbes shuffled his feet uncomfortably, and Ted leaned against the bulkhead, his eyes fastened to the glittering array in the sky outside.

It was Dr. Phelps who broke the silence.

"How fast would you say we're going now?" he asked.

"Oh, close to 18,000 miles an hour," Merola answered.

Dr. Phelps nodded knowingly. "That's just what I figured. And there's something I do not understand."

"Here we go again," Forbes said.

"If you prefer I didn't ask questions," the doctor started innocently. "I will . . ."

"Dan's only kidding, Doc," Merola said. "Fire away."

Dr. Phelps nodded and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up into his scrawny neck. "If the Station is only 1,075 miles above the Earth, why will it take us all of fifty-six minutes to get there? You said we are traveling at a speed of 18,000 miles an hour. That's approximately a thousand miles every three and a half minutes. If we can travel a thousand miles in such a short time, why do we need the extra fifty-three minutes? In fifty-six minutes, we should have traveled . . ."

"The Straight Line Fallacy," Ted said quickly.

Dr. Phelps turned, his face curious. "What was that?"

"I didn't mean to interrupt," Ted said. "Perhaps Captain Merola would . . ."

"No, go ahead," Merola said. "I'm curious to hear what they teach you Academy Joes."

"If you don't mind," Forbes interrupted, "I'm going down belowdecks to see if we've still got our engines with us." He duck-waddled across the cabin on his metal sandals, stopping beside the hatch in the deck. He gave the wheel a sharp twist to the left, swung the cover open, and started down the ladder to the deck below.

"What about this . . . Straight Line Fallacy, did you call it?" Dr. Phelps asked.

"Yes," Ted said. "That's what we called it at the Academy"

Jack sighed deeply, turned his back on the group and walked heavily to the viewport. He stood looking out at the stars, his arms folded across his chest.

"You see," Ted continued, "most people assume that a rocket simply travels in a straight line from the Earth to its destination. That isn't the case at all. Actually, only the first few minutes of flight are straight up. After that, the rocket is tilted into an egg-shaped orbit that gradually widens the distance from Earth."

"Yes, go on," Dr. Phelps said.

Ted grinned good-naturedly. "I thought that would explain it," he confessed. He scratched his head. "Now, let's see."

"Will some actual figures help?" Merola asked. "Well, yes. Yes, I think so."

"We have to realize first that we are doing two things at the same time," Merola said. "We are pushing forward at so many miles a minute, and we are also climbing upward. Forward and up at the same time. Have you got that?"

"Yes," Dr. Phelps said.

"The rest is simple then," Ted put in. "For each mile forward we go, we are also getting higher from the surface of the Earth. But because we are not going straight up, we will not necessarily have attained a height of ten miles when we have covered a distance of ten miles."

"Here are the actual figures," Merola continued. "When we've traveled an actual distance of 31.1 miles, we will have only reached a height of 24.9 miles. This difference between height reached and distance covered widens as the rocket continues in its orbit. For example, when we've covered 332 miles, our height is only 39.8 miles. When we've traveled 705 miles, we'd still be only 63.3 miles above the surface of the Earth."

Ted nodded his head enthusiastically. "You can see, then, that in order to reach the comparatively low height of 1,075 miles, we'd have to travel a very great distance. In fact, we'll have traveled more than halfway around the globe from the blastoff site before we reach the Space Station." He paused for a moment and said, "It would be simple if we could just shoot straight up. We can't, though."

Dr. Gehardt nodded. "Halfway around the globe. And the circumference of the Earth is about 25,000 miles."

"Well, a lot of other things enter into the figuring," Ted said, "but that'll give you a rough idea, anyway."

Dr. Phelps still looked doubtful. "There would still seem to be a great many miles unaccounted for. After all, in fifty-six minutes . . ."

"Oh," Ted exclaimed, brightening. "The Constant Speed Fallacy."

Jack suddenly turned from the viewport, and his face did not help to disguise the disgust in his voice. "Another Academy catch phrase," he said.

Ted felt suddenly embarrassed. Perhaps he'd said too much. Perhaps they thought he was showing off. He bit his lower lip and stared down at his shoes.

"I enjoy these catch phrases," Merola said. "Let's hear it, Ted."

Ted shrugged. "I've talked too much already, sir."

"Nonsense," Dr. Gehardt said. "I find this most informative."

"Well," Ted said hesitantly.

"Come, come," Dr. Phelps insisted.

"Well, we just called it The Constant Speed Fallacy at the Academy. I don't know what you'd really call it. It just assumes that the rocket is always traveling at its top speed of 18,468 miles an hour. This isn't so." He stroked his jaw, searching for a comparison. "If you can imagine the rocket as a bullet fired from a rifle," he said suddenly, "it might help. The bullet's speed is greatest several seconds from the muzzle of the gun. The bullet travels in an orbit, just like the rocket, with an apogee and . . ."

"A what?" Dr. Phelps asked.

Ted smiled. "The apogee is simply the peak of the orbit, the point where the rocket—or the bullet—begins to turn back toward the ground. Our apogee will be at the Space Station."

"I see. We will then be in the Space Station's orbit."

"That's right. We'll be another satellite, then. Like the Moon." Ted paused and scratched his head. "Where was I?"

"You said the bullet's speed was greatest. . ."

"Yes, several seconds from the gun muzzle. It reaches zero when the bullet is at the apogee—or peak—of its orbit, and it will again pick up as the bullet falls to the ground. The same is true of our rocket. We reached top speed at a height of 63.3 miles, and that's when we cut off our power."

"I'm beginning to understand," Dr. Phelps said, "although it's much more difficult than my first appendectomy."

"We're now in the process of losing speed," Ted said. "Actually, we're just coasting up to the Station, and we're being slowed by the Earth's gravitational pull."

A new idea struck Dr. Gehardt. "Why, what will happen when we reach . . . our apogee, is it? Will we then fall back to Earth—like the bullet?"

"We would," Merola said, "except for the fact that we start blasting again for fifteen seconds when we fall to a speed of 14,770 miles an hour. That fifteen seconds of power will bring our speed up to 15,800 miles an hour, and that'll be the speed necessary for keeping us in the Space Station's orbit."

Dr. Gehardt nodded and looked at Ted again. He opened his eyes appreciatively and said, "They certainly train you well at the Academy."

Merola grinned. "That's why Jack is going along on the Moon trip. We'll make good use of an Academy man."

Ted smiled. "I wish you could make use of two Academy men," he said.

Jack suddenly whirled from the viewport. "You'll find plenty to keep you busy at the Space Station," he snapped.

"Sure," Merola said, slapping Ted on the shoulder. "Besides, there'll be other trips to the Moon. Maybe you'll be on the next one."

"That would be swell," Ted agreed, "but please don't misunderstand me. I'd give anything to be going to the Moon with you fellows, but I'm perfectly happy with the year I'll have at the Station."

"That's the boy," Merola said. "There's no sense in . . .

Forbes suddenly stamped his way up the ladder, pulling himself up onto the deck and swinging the hatch shut behind him.

"Everything ticking?" Merola asked.

Forbes twisted the wheel tight, then lifted his blond head and grinned broadly. "Fine, just fine. Shouldn't give us any trouble at all when we start blasting again."

Merola glanced at his watch hastily. "And that won't be too long now," he said.

"You know," Dr. Phelps intruded suddenly, "I still don't understand that discrepancy."

In less than a half-hour, they were flat on their backs again, fighting the tenacious power of acceleration.

It was a short ordeal to bear, though, much shorter than the initial blastoff period had been.

And in just fifteen seconds, they were at the Space Station.

None of the men spoke as they clambered into their bulky, rubberized nylon space suits. Using the buddy system, they paired off and fastened the toggles on their partners' helmets. Ted, for one, was grateful for the darkened face plate of the helmet. He knew its real purpose was to ward off the powerful ultraviolet rays of the Sun, but at the moment it served to conceal the mixed emotions that were passing over his features.

Like a parade of overstuffed elephants, the men solemnly drifted to the air lock, sealing the inner door behind them. They waited inside the lock until the green light flashed, signifying that the pressure inside the lock was now equal to that outside. Merola floated clumsily to a button set in the bulkhead, and stabbed at it with his forefinger.

Noiselessly, the outer door of the air lock snapped open.

there'll be one every day for the remainder of the week." He chuckled and added, "I wish we had as many Moon rockets."

"There's only one, isn't there, sir?"

"That's right, Baker." He leaned forward. "Did you see her outside?" He didn't wait for an answer. "What did you think of her?"

"A beauty, sir."

General Pepper nodded. "Nonetheless," he said, getting back to the subject, "your entire class should be assembled by the end of the week. Until then . . ." He shrugged. "I suppose you might just as well get acquainted with the Station. Can't see any harm in that, as long as you don't get underfoot."

"Thank you, sir."

"You'll be sleeping in compartment 12 Charlie. You can take any sack you like, since you're the first one here. A lieutenant will be assigned to the group later, though, and he may want to rearrange things." General Pepper allowed his voice to trail off, a smile tilting the corners of his mouth. "You know how shavetails are."

"Yes, sir. I mean . . ."

"All right, Baker, you're on your own for now. If you run into any problems, just ask anyone for help. You'll find our crew to be a most co-operative one. Dismissed."

"Thank you, sir," Ted repeated. He saluted the general, about-faced, and left the compartment.

He found his sleeping quarters without any trouble. He wondered if his baggage had arrived yet, figuring he could spend some of his idle time in unpacking. The last he'd seen of it had been when he'd turned it over to the weighing section back on Johnston Island. Leaving the compartment, he debated whether he should stop a crew member to find out what the procedure with baggage was. He decided against it, reasoning that he'd find Jack or one of the other fellows soon, and they'd explain the setup to him.

Finding Jack turned out to be a matter of chance. Ted had wandered through the metal corridors of the Station for more than a half-hour, reluctant to ask directions since everyone seemed so busy. He was rounding another bend when he spotted a familiar crest of red hair.

"Jack!" he shouted. "Hey, Jack!"

Jack turned suddenly, his eyes widening. "Oh," he murmured. "It's you."

"Brother, am I glad to see you," Ted said, realizing he'd said almost the same words when he'd met Jack at the spaceport. He was a little embarrassed by his own enthusiasm now since Jack didn't seem at all happy about the chance meeting.

"What's the trouble?" Jack asked.

"Nothing. Except I need a road map of this place. How do you find your way around?"

"You'll get used to it," Jack told him. His face was unusually glum, the pained expression still clinging to his features. The Jack whom Ted had known at the Academy was full of life, always ready to share in a prank. This new Jack was a stranger.

"Well," Ted said, "I was wondering if you knew where they'd dumped my baggage."

Jack smiled briefly. "The Baggage Blues, eh? Come on, I'll take you to the Loading-In Section." He started down the corridor without another word, and Ted tailed behind him.

They passed an open door, and Ted called, "Hey, Jack, hold up a minute."

Jack turned back, plainly displeased with the interruption. "What is it?" he asked.

"That's what I wanted to ask you. Is this the Earth Viewing Room?"

Jack peeped through the open door. "That's it."

"Do you suppose we could go inside?"

"I think you'd better wait until your classes begin. You'll get so much of Earth Viewing, it'll be coming out of your ears."

Ted stood in the doorway, fascinated by what he saw inside. A series of radar screens were set in the bulkhead, showing the section of the Earth over which the Station was now passing. The first screen covered an area of one hundred miles. The screen on its right covered a twenty-mile segment of the area on the first screen. The third screen pin-pointed a two-mile area. And the last screen, almost phenomenal in its telescopic power, had focused on a five-hundred-yard area, revealing the shore of an island far below, complete with palm trees and leaping surf. Men stood before each screen, wearing sound-powered phones through which all the data was passed up to Control.

"Come on," Jack said. "I thought you wanted to find your baggage."

Ted nodded, completely absorbed in the radar screens. Jack took his elbow and pulled him away from the door. "You'll be standing watch on those screens," he said. "We'll see how much they fascinate you when you've got to nurse them along at four in the morning."

They walked silently for what seemed like a long while, although Ted imagined they'd actually covered a very short distance in the winding corridor.

At last, Jack stopped before a panel in the bulkhead. Set into the panel was an arrangement of keys that looked very much like the keyboard of a typewriter. Each key was lettered alphabetically, starting with A in the first row, and ending with Z on the last key in the last row.

"Just punch out your last name on the keys," Jack said. "The computer will sort out your baggage tags and pass the information on to the live crew on the deck above. They'll pass your baggage down through the chute."

Ted walked to the panel, studied it for a moment, and then punched out the letters B-A-K-E-R. He heard a faint humming sound as the electronic computer whirred into action. There was an immediate clicking as the information was relayed up to the top deck.

"It'll be a few minutes," Jack said. "The human element is a little slower than the machine element."

Jack leaned against the bulkhead, a blank expression on his face. Ted wondered if it were simply boredom, or preoccupation with his thoughts of the Moon trip. There was a swish, followed by a thud against the bulkhead.

"That's it," Jack said. "Better wait until it all arrives."

"There should be two suitcases and a barracks bag," Ted said. Two more thuds sounded in the corridor, and Ted grinned. "I guess that's all."

He walked to the door set in the bulkhead at shoulder level. Quickly, he turned the wheel and threw it open, reaching inside for a suitcase. He deposited this on the deck and then put a second suitcase down beside it. He stepped close to the opening then and pulled the heavy barracks bag onto his shoulder.

"Want to close this door, Jack?" he asked.

"Sure." Jack slammed the door shut, giving the wheel a quick twist. "I'll help you with those suitcases," he said.

"Well, thanks."

Ted stood by, balancing the barracks bag on his shoulders, while Jack reached down for the heaviest of die two suitcases. Jack suddenly straightened, releasing his grip on the suitcase. His face turned a pasty white, and he staggered back against the bulkhead, his mouth twisted in pain. His right hand went up to his collarbone, and he closed his eyes tightly.

Ted dropped the barracks bag to the deck. "Jack, what is it? Are you . . ."

"Nothing. Nothing at all." He ground the words out through tightly clenched teeth.

Ted moved closer, his hands stretched out before him, indecision making his movements clumsy and ineffective. "Jack . . . I . . . what . . . ?"

"I told you it was nothing," Jack snapped. He turned violently, and then screamed as he clutched at his collarbone again.

"I'm going to get the doctor," Ted said.

"No!" Jack shouted.

"But . . ."

"I said no! I'm all right. Just let me alone." "You're not all right," Ted insisted. "A blind man could see that."

"Shut up!" Jack said, his voice low and hissing. "Do you want the whole Station down on our ears?"

Ted stared at his friend, his arms hanging at his sides, a puzzled look on his face. "I don t understand, Jack," he said at length. "Why don't you want me to get a doctor?"

"Brother, how stupid can you get?" A new spasm of pain ripped through Jack's body. He ducked his head, his lips skinned back over his teeth. He bent slightly at the waist, as if the pain were too much to bear standing erect.

"I'm going," Ted said suddenly. He started to move, and Jack reached out with one hand, sinking his fingers into Ted's shoulder. He whirled Ted around, slammed him against the bulkhead, the effort bringing new agony to his face.

"Look," he gasped, "keep . . . keep your silly . . . nose out of this. Understand?"

He drew back his arm suddenly, and Ted saw pain knifing his features again.

"When did you hurt yourself?" he asked.

Jack didn't answer for a moment. He kept his head bent, his fingers pressed against his collarbone. "It'll pass," he murmured. "The pain only comes . . . every . . . now and then."

Ted suddenly remembered the blastoff from Earth and the pain that had contorted Jack's features. "Was it during blastoff?" he asked. "Was that when you hurt yourself?"

Jack nodded, swallowing hard. "That's when. Yes. Yes."

"Where?"

"My collarbone."

"Is it broken?"

"I don't think so. No."

"I'm going to get a doctor," Ted said again.

Jack lifted his head, his eyes blazing. "You'll do nothing," he whispered. "You'll keep your mouth shut and forget all about this."

"But you said . . ."

"Just forget eveiything I said. Just go about your business and forget you even know me. Until I'm on my way to the Moon."

Ted pulled his brows together and looked at Jack huddled against the bulkhead, his fingers massaging his injured collarbone.

"You can't go to the Moon like that," he said. "Acceleration might break the bone—if it's not broken already."

"It's not broken," Jack insisted, "and I'm not worried about acceleration."

"You'll be endangering your life," Ted said. "The Manual says no man should undergo acceleration unless he's in top physical . . ."

"Stop harping on that Manual," Jack said. "School days are school days, and this is something entirely different. You think I'm going to pass up a shot at the Moon because of a rules book? You think I'm crazy?"

Ted's eyes narrowed. "You're supposed to be going along as a possible replacement for any man in the crew. How can you replace anyone if you're going to need replacement yourself?"

"Let me worry about that," Jack said.

"Suppose something should go wrong? Suppose one of the men gets sick? How will you . . ."

"Look, Ted," Jack interrupted, "I'm going to the Moon. I've come this far, and I'm going the rest of the way, collarbone or no collarbone."

"You're being downright selfish. You're not only gambling with your own life; you're endangering the life of every man in the crew."

"Stop being a kid, for crying out loud! I'm due for pilot and navigator training after this hop. You know what this will mean? I'll be made. I can write my own ticket anywhere after this. You think I'm going to let a bruised bone stop me? Grow up, will you?"

Ted considered this for a moment. "Suppose I tell the doctor anyway?"

"That'll mean washout for me. I'll be through as far as the Air Force is concerned." He paused. "You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"

"I ... I don't know."

Jack smiled. "This bone bruise is nothing, Ted. Acceleration won't hurt it a bit. You'll see."

"If it's nothing to worry about, why won't you see a doctor?"

"Because I don't want to get tangled up in a lot of red tape. By the rules book, I'd be out. But you know, as well as I do, that the rules don't always apply."

Ted passed a nervous hand over his face. "Jack, why don't you . . . ?"

The smile had left Jack's face, and a scowl darkened his features now. "This is none of your business, Ted," he warned. "Just keep out of it. Your job is to stay here at the Station for a year." He paused. "My job is to reach the Moon."

ing his body, his pajamas sticking to his skin. He breathed harshly, staring into the darkness.

It was a little while before he realized he himself had been doing the screaming.

He thought about that dream all during the next day. He tried to interest himself in the various marvels of the Station. He visited the Communications Center and listened to the various messages coming from and going to Earth. He found the Celestial Viewing Room, and tried to lose himself in the unhampered vision of the heavens. It was no use.

The dream kept mtmding into his conscious mind, and he was finally forced to think about what he knew the dream actually meant.

Jack.

Jack and his injured collarbone.

He wandered down to the mess hall and sat brooding over a glass of milk, his chin cupped in one hand while he traced a pattern on the table top with the other.

He knew that Jack shouldn't go on the Moon trip. Jack's sole value was as a spare for any injured member of the crew. Should anything happen to Jack on the trip, he would lose all value completely.

There remained the faint possibility that his collarbone injury was not a serious one. If such were the case, acceleration might not damage it further.

But on the other hand, there was the chance that acceleration would hurt it further, snap it in two perhaps—or perhaps worse.

All right, he asked himself, what are you going to do about it?

He didn't know. He simply didn't know.

If Jack were willing to gamble with his own body, or even with his own life, that should be Jack's business, shouldn't it? Who was he to interfere?

He nodded his head, mentally agreeing with himself.

A persistent idea shoved at the corners of his mind, though, and he knew he was trying to fool himself.

Jack wasn't gambling with his own life alone. He was gambling with the safety of every man in the crew. And he was also increasing the odds against the success of the Moon trip.

So what? Ted asked himself. What am I supposed to do—run and tell on him? That would ruin him. Four years of study and hard work down the drain.

He sipped at his milk, put the glass down on the table again.

Supposing you'd seen Jack murder someone, a probing voice in his brain insisted, would you forget about it, or go to the authorities?

Ted passed his hand over his forehead, wiping away the sweat. This was different, of course. Jack hadn't murdered anyone, so the comparison couldn't really be drawn.

But if the Moon trip is a failure because of Jack, the probing voice continued, we can say he caused the death of every man in the crew. We can say . . .

Ted pressed his fist against his forehead, trying to shut out the conflict in his mind.

"Got a problem?" a voice asked. "Or just a headache?"

Ted looked up suddenly, almost afraid his thoughts had been read. Lieutenant Forbes pulled up a chair beside him, depositing a cup of coffee on the table.

"Oh," Ted said. "Hello, sir."

Forbes picked up a teaspoon and began stirring the coffee. "Which one is it?" he asked. "We can take care of a headache in Sick Bay. A problem, well, that's another thing again."

Ted smiled weakly. "I'm afraid we can't cure this one with an aspirin, sir."

Forbes smiled back. "Maybe I can help."

"I don't think so, sir."

Forbes shrugged. "Okay." He lifted his cup, sipped at the coffee, putting it down quickly. "Hot."

Ted stared into his glass for a long while, not saying anything. Forbes picked up his cup again and took another sip, blowing at the brown surface first.

"Suppose," Ted started, "suppose . . ."

Forbes looked up. "Uhm?"

"Well, suppose you knew you should do something. I mean, suppose you really wanted to do something."

Forbes put down his cup and turned to face Ted, his gray eyes thoughtful. "Yes?"

"I mean . . ." Ted scratched his jaw. "Look, let's suppose I wanted to do a certain thing—a thing that really should be done. That is, things would be better all around if I did this thing."

Forbes continued to look thoughtful. "Go on."

"But let's suppose that someone would be hurt badly if I did what I should do." He stopped, feeling the inadequacy of his words. "Do you understand?"

"No, not exactly."

"This thing I want to do, let's say, would make someone else very unhappy. But it would still be for the best. Everyone would be a lot happier if . . ."'

"How do you know?" Forbes interrupted.

"How do I know what?" "That everyone would be a lot happier." "Well, I just know, that's all." "I see. Go on." "Would you do it?" "Would I do what?" Forbes asked. "The thing you felt you had to do," Ted replied. Forbes lifted his cup again, swallowed some coffee, and replaced it on the saucer. "It would all depend." "On what?"

"On how important the thing was. If it were more important than the personal feelings of the someone you'd be hurting, I'd say 'Yes, do it.'"

"It's pretty important," Ted said.

"How important?"

"Well, very important."

"That doesn't tell me anything. A dime is important to a beggar, but a milhonaire wouldn't think it was so important."

Ted hesitated. He bit his lip and then said, "Let's say it's as important as ... as the Moon trip."

Forbes paused in the process of lifting his cup and gently replaced it on his saucer. He turned to face Ted fully, and his eyes tightened a trifle. "Now that's pretty important," he said.

Ted nodded. "If this thing were as important as the Moon trip, and if you felt you had to do it, would you?"

Forbes considered this, his eyes studying Ted's face. "I don't know," he said slowly. "It's something you'll have to figure out for yourself."

There was something strange in his voice, and Ted wondered if he'd made his meaning clear. He sighed heavily and said, "Yeah, I guess so."

Forbes reached out, and his fingers tightened on Ted's arm. "If it means so much, though, if it's as important as the Moon trip ..." He paused, giving added stress to the words. ". . . I'd give it a lot of thought, Baker." He finished his coffee and then stood up. When he spoke again, his voice was curiously like a warning. "I'd give it an awful lot of careful thought, Baker."

He turned his back to Ted and walked out of the mess hall, his heels clicking on the metal deck.

Ted stared after him, a puzzled frown on his forehead. He shrugged, drank his milk, and left the mess hall, the problem still heavy on his mind.

Merola was jubilant when Ted met him outside the pump room.

"Hiya, Baker," he said, "how goes the happy senior?" "Fine, sir," Ted answered, his voice lacking enthusiasm.

"Good, good," Merola replied. He rubbed his hands together, dry washing them. "Don't mind my excitement," he apologized. "We're going to blast off in about a half-hour, and I'm starting to get a little jumpy."

Ted's eyes clouded. "For the Moon, sir?"

"Yes, yes, the Moon." Merola shook his head in awe. "How do you like that? We'll be shooting for the Moon in half an hour, Baker. The Moon!" He shook his head again.

"And everything is all right, sir?"

"Huh? Why, sure. What could be wrong? The rocket's in tiptop shape, and so's the crew. Supplies and fuel were sent up a while ago by pilotless rocket."

"Fuel? For the return trip, sir?"

"That's right. And supplies to last us while we're dawdling around up there. We'll just be carrying enough fuel to get us there, and enough supplies for a few weeks. Less weight to carry, you understand." He paused and clapped Ted on the shoulder. "Hey, what am I telling all this to you for? You Academy guys are as sharp as tacks."

"Yes, sir."

"You've no idea how glad I am that Jack will be along on this little junket. He can be darned valuable if anything goes wrong."

Ted winced. "Yes, sir."

"Anything wrong, Baker?" Merola's voice was concerned. "Don't you feel well?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, I feel fine."

"Mmm. Well, got to get set. There are still a few last minute things to . . ."

"Sir," Ted said suddenly. "I. . ."

He watched Merola, wondering if he should tell him. Sweat popped out on his forehead, and a solid lump rose to his throat. He swallowed and kept staring at the captain, wondering where he should begin, wondering if he should begin.

"What is it, Baker?"

"About Talbot, sir. Jack, I mean."

"What about him?"

"I ... he . . ."

No. No, this wasn't the way at all. "Well, what about him?"

"N-n-nothing, sir. Nothing." Ted lowered his eyes. "I just wanted to say I ... I hope he ... I hope he does the Academy proud."

Merola grinned and put his arm around Ted's shoulders as they started off down the corridor. "I'm sure he will, Baker," he said. "I'm sure he will."

Ted crawled hand over hand down the landing-net leading to the "hub" of the Station. The hub contained the air lock and the landing berths, and had virtually no gravity. The "wheel's" movement around the hub was what provided the centrifugal force which served as synthetic gravity in the rest of the Station. Without the landing net, Ted would have floated helplessly in the air as he made his way toward the lock.

Jack was in that lock now, getting into his space suit, making himself ready for the space taxi diat would carry him to the Moon rocket.

Everything was set in Ted's mind. He would ask Jack to do his own deciding. If Jack confessed his injury to the authorities, there would probably be no punishment. In fact, he would likely be commended for his honesty.

If, on the other hand, he insisted on jeopardizing Man's first stab at the Moon, Ted would report liim. There was no other way out. Friendship was one thing, but . . .

There was a faint shuffling sound at the end of the long passageway. Ted gulped hard and quickened his movements, reaching out ahead of him for space-eating grips on the heavy ropes.

He was at the end of the passageway before he realized it. He released his grip on the ropes and floated down into the lock, his face grim.

Jack was floating above the hatch leading to the landing berth below. He had already put on a space suit, and was lacking only a helmet to complete the costume. Behind him, firmly secured to the bulkheads with metal brackets, Ted saw the rows of neatly folded space suits. Above these, like so many empty heads, the corresponding helmets clung to their brackets.

Jack looked immense in the space suit. The heavy nylon added inches to his chest and arms, and his hands looked large and powerful in their bulky gloves. He looked up quickly as Ted floated into the lock.

"What are you doing here?" he said. His voice was harsh and strained. His red brows were pulled together tightly, angling upward from a deep line just above his nose.

"I want to talk to you," Ted said. He shoved his hand against the bulkhead, floating over beside Jack.

Jack clenched his fists inside the thick gloves, and a scowl darkened his face. He stared at Ted for a long moment, and then said, "We've got nothing to talk about, Baker."

"We've got a lot to talk about."

"I'm busy," Jack said. He pushed his gloved hand against the supply tube jutting up from the deck. The shove sent him floating to the helmets bracketed on the bulkhead. He clamped his big hands on one and pulled it toward him.

"You're not too busy to hear this."

The helmet refused to budge, and Jack tugged at it again. It came free this time, and the sudden release sent Jack hurtling back across the compartment again. He turned on Ted bitterly, the helmet clenched in his hands. "You going to read me a section of the Manual?"

"No."

"What then?" Jack gave a short laugh.

"I want you to tell the doctor about your injury." "You're crazy!"

"No, I'm just thinking of the Moon rocket." "So am I," Jack answered quickly. "I'm thinking of what acceleration may do to that bone."

"Don't worry about me, Baker. I can take care of myself."

"I'm not worrying about you," Ted shot back. "I'm worrying about the other men on the trip. And I'm worrying about the years of planning behind this, and the energy expended, and the money invested, and the hope of every man . . ."

"Cut it out, will you?" Jack said. "You'll have me weeping."

"Jack, if you don't tell them about your injury, 1 will."

Jack digested Ted's ultimatum for a moment. He grinned then, floating on the air like a bloated specter.

"I'd break every bone in your body, Baker," he said. The smile vanished from his face, and there was only a warning left; a warning in the slitted eyes and flaring nostrils, a warning in the razor-slit mouth.

"You don't scare me, Jack," Ted said. "If you think a beating will . . ."

They both looked up suddenly as the speaker on the bulkhead belched static. A man blew into the microphone somewhere on the Station, testing it, and then his voice sounded in the compartment.

"Moon rocket ready for firing. Jack Talbot report to Moon rocket on the double."

"Hear that?" Jack asked.

"I heard it."

"They're waiting for me, Baker. I suggest you clear out."

Ted shook his head. "You're not going, Jack."

"Look, hero," Jack said, "don't get me sore. I've listened to about enough of your half-baked ideas."

Abruptly, Jack pushed his hand against the overhead and began drifting toward the hatch in the deck. Ted reached out quickly, his fingers closing around the toggle in the metal shoulder plate of the suit. Like two dancers in a seriocomic ballet, they floated down to the deck.

Ted quickly reached for the wheel in the hatch, wrapping his fingers tightly around it.

"Get away from that hatch," Jack said. He dropped to the deck and wrapped one gloved hand around the wheel, clinging to the helmet with the other.

"You're not getting into that taxi, Jack," Ted said.

"Get out of my way!" Jack warned.

He relaxed his grip on the wheel for an instant and shoved at Ted with the open palm of his right hand. Ted tried to bring up his hands in time to ward off the blow. He realized with a sickening rush that he was too late. Jack's palm collided against his chest and sent him careening back toward the bulkhead. He felt his back slam against the unyielding metal, knocking the breath out of him for an instant. Slowly he drifted up from the deck, a knife pain in his chest.

Jack was already twisting the hatch wheel.

Alarm raced along Ted's spine. He gripped the supply tube with both hands, swinging around it like a circus performer, his legs out ahead of him. Jack ducked as he saw the legs coming toward him, releasing the wheel and immediately floating away from the hatch.

He held the helmet in his left hand, dangling there like a huge bell. His lips skinned back over his teeth, and his voice dropped to a low hiss. "I'm not kidding, Baker. I'm not kidding at all."

"Neither am I, Jack."

The sweat was standing out on Jack's brow now, neat little globules that glistened in the light of the fluorescent tubes. His breath ripped into his chest, and his shoulders heaved beneath the heavy protection of the space suit.

"All right," he said. "One more chance. I'm going through that hatch, Baker. I'm getting into that taxi down there, and it's taking me to the Moon rocket. I don't want any interference, understand? I don't want any more of your clowning."

"I'm not clowning, Ja . . ."

"Shut up! I'm doing the talking now. I've listened to enough of your juvenile garbage. If you take one step toward this hatch, I'll. . ."

His voice trailed off as Ted pushed both legs against the supply tube, shoving his way across the lock.

"Why, you . .." Jack shouted. He swung the helmet at the end of his left hand, bringing it up toward Ted's head. Ted saw the glint of metal as the heavy helmet lunged for him. He stuck both hands out ahead of him, pushed his body away from the swinging metal.

Jack bounced on the deck, his legs bending. He sprang upright again, the helmet swinging back for another blow.

"I warned you, Baker. 1 told you . . ,

Ted saw the murderous glint of metal again as the helmet swung in its dizzy arc. He drew back his fist and pushed himself away from the bulkhead, uncorking the fist at the same time.

The forward momentum of Jack's swing carried him right into Ted's flashing fist, and it collided against his jaw with shattering force. His fingers opened wide, and the helmet drifted harmlessly across the compartment. His eyes went blank then as he flipped over on his back. He hung on the air like a swimmer floating without water.

"Jack!" Ted said, his voice shaking.

He pushed himself over to the floating figure, shook the shoulder inside the space suit. Together, they drifted down toward the hatch.

"Jack!"

And then, from the bulkhead speaker, like an echo of Ted's words, the voice repeated, "Jack Talbot, report to Moon rocket immediately." There was urgency in the voice now, urgency bordering on panic. "Now hear this. Now hear this. Jack Talbot, repeat, Jack Talbot, report to Moon rocket immediately!"

Ted looked around the compartment frantically. The rocket! If it left without a fifth man . . .

He felt his heart leap up into his throat, settle there like a flaming firebrand.

He had to stop them. They had to know about Jack. He had to stop blastoff.

His eyes hastily scanned the bulkheads, pausing on the neat rows of space suits and helmets. Without hesitation, he leaped against one of the bulkheads, jackknifing his legs and pushing off toward the suits. He yanked one free from the brackets, watched it unfold of its own volition.

cuses, please. If I don't get you to that rocket in ten seconds flat, I'll be back Earthside so fast . . ." He didn't finish his sentence. He seemed to remember he was wasting time talking, and he stabbed his forefinger at a button in the instrument panel. Ted heard the whine of the jets behind him as the small rocket leaped away from the landing berth.

The short distance from the Station to the waiting Moon rocket seemed like a thousand miles to Ted. He drummed his gloved fingers against the cushion of his seat, his eyes scanning the stars that stared down in indifferent boredom. He fidgeted nervously, the sweat streaming down his face inside the helmet. It occurred to him once that he should make another stab at telling the taxi pilot who he was. He shrugged this aside, figuring it would only slow up the trip to the rocket—and he had to get there as soon as possible.

"Here we are, boy," the Southerner said. "You better get in there right quick."

Ted fairly leaped over the side of the taxi, gripping the rungs outside the air lock of the Moon rocket. Unlike the three-stage that had taken him to the Station, the Moon rocket was almost squat in design, looking like the triangular head of a rattlesnake. Its jets stuck out behind it like a row of yellowed buck teeth. Ted glanced briefly at the button in the air-lock door. He pressed it with his forefinger, and the door swung wide, admitting him to the lock. He twirled the wheel on the inside of the door, sealing the ship. He looked around the lock in confusion for several minutes. The Academy courses had never mentioned Moon rockets! He finally found two buttons set in the bulkhead, one green and one red, set above each other like the lamps in a traffic light. He pressed the green button and waited, satisfied when he heard the slow hiss of air in the lock.

The seconds dragged by slowly, tiringly. He waited until a light began blinking over the inner door of the lock, then floated quickly to the door, not stopping to remove his helmet. He twisted the heavy wheel and put his shoulder against the door, pushing it open. Quickly, he slammed the door behind him, turning the wheel on the other side.

He began loosening the toggles on his helmet as he stared around the unfamiliar cabin. A ladder ran from the deck to the overhead, leading to a closed hatch that undoubtedly opened on the control room above. At any rate, Ted assumed this smaller rocket would follow the same general design of the larger three-stage. He hesitated while he finished unfastening the toggles. He lifted his helmet off and placed it securely between the brackets on the wall.

He started for the ladder, reaching up high to grip the rungs, his feet coming up from the deck. He stopped climbing when his head was just beneath the hatch. He twisted the wheel, cursing the diabolical intelligence that had designed space ships with so many wheels to turn and unturn. He swung the wheel all the way to the left and then lifted the hatch cover with his shoulders, climbing into the cabin. He stooped down quickly and secured the hatch again. Then he stood up and turned toward the acceleration couches.

Merola's voice came to him first. "That you, Jack? What on earth kept you?"

"It's me," he said. "Ted Baker!"

"What?" Merola swung upright on the couch, turning his body to face the hatch. "What the deuce are you doing here?"

"Jack is hurt," Ted said quickly. "You've got to stop blastoff."

Merola leaped to the deck, drifting downward, and Dan Forbes dropped down beside him. Behind them, Ted could see the worried faces of the two doctors.

"What are you talking about?" Merola asked. "What do you mean Jack's hurt?"

"I had to knock him unconscious," Ted blurted. "That is, I didn't want to, but he insisted on coming to the rocket. I had to stop him somehow, and the only way I could was . . ."

"Make sense!" Merola snapped. "Where's Jack now?"

"Back in the air lock. At the Station." Ted took a deep gulp and added, "You've got to stop blastoff, sir. Jack's . . ."

"How the deuce do you propose we do that?" Merola stormed. "I thought you Academy guys . . ." He clamped his mouth shut in exasperation and then lowered his voice as he went on. "This ship is primed to go, Baker. We couldn't stop blastoff if we wanted to. Suppose you start explaining this from the be . . ."

"I didn't think you'd have the guts," Forbes said suddenly. "I didn't think you'd go through with it, Baker."

For an instant, Ted didn't realize Forbes was addressing him. He turned to face the lieutenant then and asked, "Sir?"

"Don't give me the baby-blue-eyes treatment,

Baker," Forbes snapped. "Of all the filthy tricks, this takes the cake!"

"What are you talking about?" Merola asked.

"Our eager senior here," Forbes said. His gray eyes flashed with unveiled anger. He gestured at Ted with his close-cropped blond head and said, "He's sabotaged Jack and come aboard in his place!"

Ted's mouth opened in surprise. "Why no, sir. That's not it at all! Jack . . ."

"George," Dr. Phelps called hurriedly. "The Station. They're sending up a flare."

Merola sidestepped Ted and shoved himself hastily to the viewport. A red flare arced high over the Station, like a spark leaping from the rim of a wheel. It burst in the sky like an opening red hand, its brilliance tinting the inside of the rocket.

"That's a danger flare," Merola said. He whirled from the viewport, facing Ted with a solemn look in his eyes.

"What does Dan mean, Baker?"

"I don't know, sir. I didn't come aboard in Jack's place. I came here to tell you to stop blastoff. Sir, I..."

"Then what was all that talk this afternoon, Baker?" Forbes interrupted. "About wanting to do something you knew would hurt someone else? About it being as important as the Moon trip? I tried to tell myself I was wrong about you, Baker, but you proved I was right. The temptation proved to be too much, didn't it?"

Panic rushed into Ted's eyes. "Sir, I ... I ..." he stammered. "You . . . you've got to understand."

"Attention, Moon rocket!" the bulkhead speaker blared. "Attention, Moon rocket!"

"Here it is now," Merola said. "Maybe this'U clear it up.

"You have a stowaway," the voice on the speaker said.

"No!" Ted shouted. "That's not true. I didn't . . ." "You have a stowaway, Moon rocket. You have a stowaway."

"All right, Baker," Forbes said. "That confirms it." "Sir . .."

Merola's face was grim. "I'm a little disappointed in you, Baker. I thought . . . well, no matter."

"What are we going to do, George?" Forbes asked.

"What can we do? He goes with us."

"No," Ted pleaded. "We can't do that. I just wanted you to stop because Jack was hurt and . . ."

"You planned it this way, Baker," Forbes said. "Why chicken out now?"

"I didn't plan anything!" Ted shouted. He turned to the two doctors still lying on the couches. They stared at him incredulously. "Dr. Phelps, Dr. Gehardt," he pleaded. "Won't you listen to me?"

Dr. Phelps turned away, his silence more cutting than any words could have been.

Dr. Gehardt seemed to waver for a moment. He shook his head slowly then and said, "I remember on the trip to the Station, your talk about the Moon rocket."

"But I didn't mean . . ."

"Stand by for blastoff," the bulkhead speaker warned.

"Captain Merola," Ted said, "you've got to believe me. I didn't want to come on the Moon trip. I was perfectly happy to stay at the Station." He bit his lip, dangerously close to frustrated tears, holding them back before these older men.

"Then what are you doing here?" Merola asked.

"Jack was injured. I came to tell you."

"Sure," Forbes said. "You knocked him cold. You just admitted it a while ago."

"No, not that," Ted said. "He . . ."

"Zero minus two," the speaker warned.

"Let's get to the couches," Merola said. "We can talk about this later."

"But, Captain," Ted started. "I . . ."

"Get to your couch, Baker," Merola said, his voice stern.

"Zero minus one."

"Wh-which couch, sir?"

"Above Dr. Gehardt. Snap to it!"

"Sir, I..."

"You've caused enough trouble already, Baker. If you foul up our blastoff, I'll. . ." "Fifty-five . . ."

"Let's hop to it, George," Forbes said. "Fifty ..."

Merola went quickly across the deck and piled into his couch. He swung the movable radar screen into place over his chest, began clicking toggles.

"I'm checked, Dan," he said.

"Roger."

"Thirty . . ."

"Are those the seconds the speaker is counting off?" Dr. Gehardt asked.

"Forward radar loud and clear," Forbes called. Roger, twenty . . .

Two minutes, he kept repeating to himself. Two minutes and it'll be all over. Two minutes minutes minutes minutes . . .

The pound of the jets picked up the chant in his head, echoed it back to him in a thousand roaring voices that filled the cabin of the ship. The bulkheads vibrated in response to the unleashed fury of the rockets.

The pain reached deep into his skull, probed at his brain, curled along his spine. Two minutes. Two minutes.

It was easier to black out. It was far easier to succumb to the incessant force. He fought it tenaciously, like a man holding to the tail of an enraged tiger.

And then it was over. The two minutes had passed. They were dead, and the trail of fire that had lanced across the sky had died with them.

Ted lay back on the couch, his eyes still closed, his body covered with a fine sweat. His breathing was coarse and uneven. He lay there and rested, feeling the strength seep back into his exhausted muscles. He thought briefly of Jack, wondering if the acceleration would have finished his collarbone. He did not think of the Moon. The Moon was a distant sphere in the sky, something cold and bleak, something inaccessible. He did not think of it at all, and it never even remotely occurred to him that he was now speeding for the Moon with fantastic rapidity.

It seemed hot in the cabin, and he knew this was ridiculous because the temperature was undoubtedly controlled by air conditioning. Still, it seemed hot. He knew he was drenched with perspiration, but he made no move to wipe the moisture from his face; he lay there, instead, with one arm dangling over the side of the couch, his legs widespread, his mouth open.

The silence seemed to press on his ears like a physical force, and his mind toyed idly with the idea of lack of sound being noisier than the noisiest noise.

Merola's voice cut through the silence. "Everybody okay?"

"Forbes here."

"Gehardt here."

"Phelps here."

Ted hesitated, wondering if he had the strength to speak. He reached for his voice as a man would reach for a life raft in a raging sea. "B-Baker here, sir," he said, surprised at the sound that came from his throat.

He made no attempt to change his position. He lay there like a dead man, his eyes still closed, his body motionless.

He heard a faint rustle from somewhere below him and then Merola said, "Don't try to get up yet, Dr. Phelps. Rest awhile."

"I thought I might give everyone a quick check," the physician replied.

"That can wait. Rest for now."

The voices came to Ted from somewhere far below him, like voices partially realized in a fragment of a dream.

Merola cleared his throat, and his voice sounded in the cabin like the monotonous roll of a solemn drum. There was no emotion in it, no attempt at rhetoric.

"Were on our way to the Moon," he said. "Anything can happen from this point on. If we reach the Moon, half our battle is over. If we don't . . ." He paused, and the stillness crowded its way into the cabin again. "If we don't, there'll be others after us. We've had a bad start, and that puts one strike against us."

Ted opened his eyes and looked down over the side of the couch. Merola was sitting up in his couch, his hands gripping the sides, his head staring at the deck.

"One of our men isn't with us," Merola went on, and Ted felt a hot flash of futility wash over his body. "He was a valuable man, and he rounded out a carefully selected crew. We'll have to get along as best we can without him."

Ted sighed heavily. Merola was talking about Jack as if he'd been killed in the line of duty. An impatience welled up inside him, and he wanted to scream the truth at the captain.

"Sir," he started.

"Talbot was to have taken the place of any man in the crew if we ran into any trouble. Without that spare . . ."

"Sir," Ted interrupted.

Merola looked up slowly, and his voice was extremely tired when he spoke. "What is it, Baker?"

"I just wanted you to know that . . ."

He stopped. What did he want them to know? What difference would it make now? They were already in space, headed for the Moon, and they apparently considered their loss an irreparable one.

"If you're going to apologize," Forbes cut in, "just skip it. The damage is already done."

"Easy, Dan," Merola said.

"Well, confound it!" Forbes shouted. "I'm plain burned up. How anyone could have the gall to assume he was a better man than the person who was specifically chosen for a job is just. . ."

"There's no sense blowing your top," Merola said. "He's here, and we'll have to make the best of it."

"You can make the best of it," Forbes said bitterly. "I'm just going to try and forget he's around."

Ted had the strange feeling that he was eavesdropping on a conversation he wasn't supposed to be hearing. The men kept talking about him as if he weren't there! He was beginning to feel like a rivet in the hull of the ship.

"Dan," Dr. Phelps put in mildly.

"What?" Forbes's voice was harsh.

"He's only a boy. He made a mistake. Boys often make mistakes. If we let it upset us, we'll be endangering the Moon trip."

"Well, it has upset me, Doc. I'm sorry, but it's upset me a lot. Suppose something does go wrong? What then? What'll we do then?"

"Sir," Ted said, "if I may . . ."

"Don't give me the 'sir' business, Baker," Forbes snapped. "You're been sirring everyone like a recuit in Napoleon's army."

"I'm sorry, sir. I just . . ."

"The 'sir' routine doesn't cut any ice with me, and I think George feels the same way. If you'd really had any respect for your superior officers, you wouldn't have pulled such a fool stunt."

"That's just it, sir. I didn't . . ."

Forbes swung out of his couch, his eyes flaring. "I said cut out the 'sir' routine! It's coming out of my ears!"

"Dan, Dan," Dr. Phelps interceded.

Forbes clenched his teeth and turned away from Ted. "I'm sorry, Doc. I'm a fine example of mental stability, am I not?"

"It's not that," Dr. Phelps said softly. "The boy is with us now. Believe me, I don't like the idea of his forcible intrusion any more than you do." He shrugged. "We can't let it upset our equilibrium, though. Our crew was to have consisted of five men. We will get along with four."

"Exactly," Dr. Gehardt said, "as long as the boy doesn't get in our way."

Merola, who had been sitting thoughtfully with his chin cupped in his hands, suddenly said, "Maybe we're tackling this in the wrong way. "

Ted's heart skipped an apprehensive beat.

"How do you mean?" Forbes asked.

"Baker's not exactly a complete loss, you know."

"No?" Forbes asked derisively.

"I've been thinking," Merola went on. "The boy has had training. After all, he's within a year of being graduated from the Academy. It's not as if we'd taken along someone who knew nothing at all about . . ."

"What are you driving at, George?" Forbes asked. "I hope it's not what I'm thinking."

"Well, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking you plan to substitute Baker for Jack."

Merola shrugged sheepishly. "Well . . ."

"And I'm thinking I don't like the idea. Not one bit. It smells from here to Mars. That's what I'm thinking."

Dr. Gehardt nodded his head. "Dan is right, George. I quite agree with him."

"I'll have to go along with the others," Dr. Phelps said. "We'd be playing right into the boy's hand otherwise."

"Of course," Forbes said triumphantly. "He obviously stowed away with the intention of taking Jack's place. If we give it to him as a present, we'll be condoning his action."

Merola smiled. "Instead," he said, "we'll simply cut off our noses."

"Huh?" Merola's attitude threw Forbes off balance.

"To spite our faces," Merola said. "We've got someone among us who could conceivably act as a spare. You've heard Baker talk about rockets. You know as well as I do that he's not entirely ignorant on the subject."

"I've also heard him talk about the Moon," Forbes said caustically.

"All right," Merola said, nodding, "look at it this way. Suppose we were lost in the jungle and the only person who could lead us out was a guide who had forced his way into the safari. Would you prefer to stay lost, or would you . . ."

Forbes smiled sardonically. "That's beautiful logic, Cap," he said. "Except that the comparison is a false one. We won't be lost if we refuse to accept Baker's gracious assistance."

Merola shrugged, spreading his hands wide. "Suppose we put it to a vote?"

"Suits me fine."

"All right," Dr. Phelps said.

Dr. Gehardt nodded his approval.

"There are two courses we can follow," Merola said. "One: we can forget Baker is with us, in which case we'd treat him like a common stowaway under temporary arrest."

Ted bit his lip and stared down at the men below him. Outside the speeding ship, the stars passed no judgment. They stared at the shining metal pellet with blind, unwinking eyes.

"Or," Merola continued, "we can accept him into the crew as an informed member with helpful knowledge. We'll then suspend the stowaway charges until we get back to Earth."

"If we get back to Earth under the circumstances," Forbes put in.

"Shall we vote?" Merola asked. He waited, taking the men's silence for approval.

Ted crossed his fingers and stared up at the overhead.

"All right," Merola said, "all those in favor of treating Baker like a member of the crew, say aye."

Only one voice said, "Aye." It was Merola's own.

A significant silence hung on the air in the cabin. Ted squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

"All those in favor of placing Baker under temporary

arrest as a stowaway, say aye." it« it Aye.

Aye.

Again the silence, punctuated only by the heavy breathing of the men.

"I think you're making a mistake," Merola said.

Ted turned his head toward the bulkhead. The stars seemed to have gone out suddenly.

The freeze began then.

Ted could compare it to nothing he had ever experienced before. He simply ceased to exist as far as any other member of the crew was concerned. Merola spoke to him only to give instructions and orders, reluctantly abiding by the majority decision of the other men. The rest of the crew ignored him completely. If Ted came within reaching distance of any of the men, they invariably sought another part of the cabin.

During meals, they clustered together into a tight, forbidding knot, their backs to him. It was cold, a coldness generated by men who felt they were doing the right thing, a coldness more complete than that of the void outside the ship.

Ted was utterly miserable.

Coupled with the methodical ostracizing he suffered, he also had to contend with the uncomfortable conditions of space travel. Weightlessness on the short hop to the Station had been a comparative lark. It had become something more than that now.

There was a choice to be had, of course.

You could drift all over the small cabin, feeling like a gas-inflated tube, your stomach threatening to ooze out of your ears every time you moved.

Or you could wear the heavy, magnetized sandals that enabled you to establish the most synthetic of gravities in that they allowed you to walk on the deck if you so chose.

They also allowed you to walk on the bulkheads, or on the overhead, or indeed anywhere that boasted a metal surface.

The trouble was simply that the sandals were so heavy. After ten minutes of struggling around the cabin with them, having to fight free of the magnetic force every time you wanted to lift a foot and place it down again, your leg muscles were simply too tired to hold you up.

Those were the choices, and Ted pardoned his own pun as he mused that neither of them was exactly choice.

Tied in with the problem of motion was the problem of nourishment. Eating was a habit Ted had long become used to. This, and drinking, were simply a matter of form back on Earth, simple processes that could be undertaken with the eyes blindfolded and one hand tied behind the back. Not so in space.

Drinking was not too difficult at all. Naturally, open cups and bottles could not be used. When a liquid is weightless, it simply has no reason to leave a bottle, and it will not pour if the bottle it tilted. On the other hand, if the bottle were shaken, all of the contents would come rushing out in one sudden splash. All liquids were placed in closed containers made of plastic. When the sides of these containers were squeezed, the liquid squirted out.

It meant getting used to tasting milk in squirts rather than gulps, but Ted soon became adjusted to it.

Eating was another matter. When everything is weightless, a beefsteak will float about as aimlessly as will a body. A plate, unfortunately, will follow the same procedure. If a beefsteak were conceivably placed on a platter, then it would promptly float up toward the overhead at the slightest jar. And if someone inadvertently let go of a plate, it too would sail merrily off to another portion of the cabin.

As a result, the plates were made of magnetized metal, so that they clung to any metal surface upon which they were placed. Each plate was approximately two inches deep, with a plastic top covering it. The top was divided into four quarters which slid open at a touch of the finger tips.

Ted soon mastered the process of eating. No sit-down-and-stuff-yourself matter was this, he soon discovered. The food was cooked in a closed broiler. As soon as the broiler was opened, the food had to be speared with a fork immediately. Luckily, the fork utilized friction and not gravity, so there was no danger of a piece of food floating off a fork. After the food was speared, it was transferred to the plate, and the cover immediately put in place. The meal could then be begun.

Whenever a piece of food was desired, one of the quarters was slid open a fraction of an inch, and the fork thrust into that space to spear the food. The opening was then sufficiently enlarged to allow the food on the fork to pass through, and then snapped shut again. Cutting was a little more difficult in that the food had to be speared through the opening, the knife inserted into the slit, the food sliced, the knife withdrawn, the opening made wider, the food taken out, the opening closed. Nor was it possible to lay down a utensil on anything but a metal surface. Ted once put down his knife on a plastic clipboard and promptly had to chase it halfway across the cabin. He finally grasped it when its magnetism caught at the metal bulkhead.

Eating was no longer a pleasant pastime. It was, rather, a full-scale operation. This distressed Ted because he was a boy with an unusually large appetite, and weightlessness somehow took the edge off his hunger. At least, he attributed his loss of appetite to the weightless condition inside the rocket. Eating his meals alone, separate from the other men, may have had something to do with it.

At the end of their first day out from the Station, Ted was physically exhausted. And he soon discovered that sleeping was another pleasure which had been complicated by the peculiar properties of weightlessness.

It was conceivably possible to simply stretch out in mid-air and go to sleep that way. Barring any sudden jar, the body would simply hang there until it drifted off to sleep. Ted found this wasn't the case. Every time he breathed, he found himself drifting over toward one or another of the bulkheads. When he finally settled himself close to one of the bulkheads, preventing any further drifting, he was surprised to discover he was slowly being sucked toward the intake grill of the air-conditioning system.

He gave it up as a bad try, and ended up by strapping himself into his couch, where he spent a tossless night—and, as a result, a sleepless one. He was not used to being strapped down in bed. He was a sprawling sleeper, and his inability to turn and toss at will kept him awake most of the night.

That was how he discovered the loose rivet.

He was lying on the couch, the straps across his waist and chest annoying the life out of him. He stared up at the overhead, tracing the pattern of rivets with his eyes. He decided to count the rivets, using them as substitutes for sheep. He started with

"He took a swing at a loose ..." Ted started to explain.

"Baker found a loose rivet," Forbes said, a touch of bitterness in his voice. "George was trying to fix it."

Dr. Phelps nodded, waiting as Forbes brought him a pair of magnetized sandals. He slipped these on quickly, wrapped his arms around Merola's waist.

"Give me a push down," he said to Ted.

Ted braced himself by clinging to one of the couches, then shoved down hard on the doctor's shoulder. Together with his burden, Dr. Phelps floated to the deck. His magnetized sandals gripped the metal and held him firmly rooted there, his arms still tight around Merola's waist.

"Let's hurry," he called to Dr. Gehardt.

Forbes, sandals on his own feet now, helped Dr. Phelps lower Merola to the deck. He threw a line over Merola's chest, the magnetic blocks on either end clinging to the deck. He did the same to the captain's knees, then held his head up while Dr. Phelps examined the wound more closely.

"Here's the kit, Peter," Dr. Gehardt said, drifting over from one of the lockers.

"Thank you." Dr. Phelps took the kit and rested its magnetic bottom on the deck. He lifted the lid a trifle, removing a plastic container of alcohol and slamming the lid tight again. He squirted some alcohol onto his hands and rubbed them briskly. He then reached into the kit for a wad of cotton, saturating it with alcohol. Methodically, deftly, he began to clean the wound.

"I hope it's just a fracture," he murmured.

Beads of sweat stood out on Forbes's forehead beneath his close-cropped hair. There was a worried expression on his face. He licked his lips quickly.

"What else could it be, Doc?"

Dr. Phelps didn't look up. His fingers kept moving rapidly around the wound. "Concussion," he murmured.

Ted watched them from above, wanting to help, but knowing there was nothing he could really do. "Is that bad?" Forbes asked.

Dr. Phelps's black brows curled up onto his forehead in surprise. "Concussion?" he asked. "Yes."

Dr. Phelps nodded solemnly. "Yes, I'm afraid concussion would be very bad."

Forbes let out a deep breath.

"The bleeding doesn't seem to be too bad though," Dr. Phelps went on. He barely turned his head. "Fred, let me have one of those sulfapaks."

Dr. Gehardt lifted the lid of the kit too quickly, and a roll of gauze floated up into the air, unrolling as it went. Dr. Gehardt made a stab at recapturing it.

"Let it go," Dr. Phelps said quickly. "The sulfapak, please."

Dr. Gehardt's fingers fumbled inside the kit. He was trembling when he finally handed Dr. Phelps the package. The physician ripped the package open, stared at the pad for a moment and then quickly placed it over the wound.

"There are some large squares of cotton in the kit," he said. "The material, not the absorbent cotton. May I have several of them?"

Dr. Gehardt found the handkerchief-size pieces of cloth and handed them to Dr. Phelps. Quickly the doctor's fingers formed the squares into a solid-looking ring pad, slightly larger than the wound and resembling a cloth quoit. "Get the gauze now," he said.

Ted snatched the roll of gauze out of the air and brought it down to the doctor. Dr. Phelps took the end of the roll, placed the ring pad in place over the dressing, and then looped the gauze under Merola's chin, up over his head and the wound, under the chin again. He kept unwinding the roll until the ring pad was completely covered with several layers of gauze. He snipped off a half-inch of adhesive then, and taped the bandage in place. He ran another bandage across Merola's forehead and over the wound, taping this too.

"All right," he said, "let's move him to one of the couches."

Forbes clumped across the deck in his heavy sandals and guided Merola's feet, as Dr. Phelps steered his shoulders into the bottom couch on the starboard side of the ship. They laid him down gently, pulling the straps over his shoulders and waist.

Dr. Phelps squirted some more alcohol onto his hands, rinsing off the blood. He dried his hands, his eyes never leaving Merola's inert figure on the couch.

He shook his head then. "There's nothing more we can do. Except wait. And maybe pray."

On the fourth day out from the Station, long after they had fixed the loose rivet, Forbes called a meeting of the crew. They clustered around the instrument panel, their faces serious. Ted stood off in the corner of the ship, an unwelcome eavesdropper.

Forbes got straight to the point. He ran his strong, square finger tips through his short blond hair, pulled his hand away from his head, and said, "We're in a tight spot." He paused, and his eyes were troubled. He looked as if he were about to cry, his features about to crumble. "George is still unconscious. I don't know what we're going to do."

"I don't believe it's a concussion," Dr. Phelps said. "A very bad fracture and subsequent shock—but not a concussion." He shook his head. "If we had some way of taking an X ray ..."

"Will he be coming around soon?" Forbes asked.

Dr. Phelps sighed deeply. "I wish I knew. He may gain consciousness at any moment, or it may take days."

"We haven't got days, Doc," Forbes said grimly. "I don't understand."

"It's simple. At about this time tomorrow, we'll have to attempt a landing on the Moon." Forbes's shoulders sagged, as if he were too tired to go on. "George is our pilot and navigator."

"Must we land tomorrow?" Dr. Gehardt asked. His eyes were cloudy with concern. Ted noticed that he seemed somehow older since the accident. "Isn't there some way to postpone it until George is . . ."

"Our orbit was calculated to take us to the Moon," Forbes said. "If we don't land on it, we'll crash on it."

"Can't we change our orbit?" Dr. Gehardt asked.

Forbes shook his head. "We've got just enough fuel to get us to the Moon. If we use that fuel to change our orbit, avoiding a crash, we wouldn't have any left to take us anywhere else. As it is, we'll be using that fuel when we start braking for a landing." "Braking?"

"Yes. In effect, we'll be turning the rocket so that she'll come down tail first, the thrust of our jets braking our descent. In other words, we'll be literally sitting down on our jets."

"But if you know all this, why can't you bring her down?" Dr. Phelps asked.

Forbes slammed his fist into the open palm of his other hand. "That's just the trouble. I know this ship as well as I know my own mother. I can take it apart and put it together again blindfolded. But navigation is something else again. And I wouldn't want to fool with a navigation problem as tricky as this one will be."

"But ... I don't understand. Why can't we radio the Space Station? They should be able to give us directions."

Forbes shook his head. "Doc, the only part of this trip that isn't automatic is the landing process. Someday, maybe that'll be automatic, too. But right now, all the figures are theoretical—and the margin of error is too great to gamble on."

"We do have figures, then?"

"Sure. We have loads of approximate figures. All supplied by the Station months before the actual trip. Figures that say when turnover should take place, how long we should blast, all of it. But these figures have to be constantly checked against our course and speed and distance from the Moon as we move along. That can't be done from the Station."

"Why not? We can radio them, and they can do the computation there." "Up to a point, yes." "Why only up to a point?"

"Because turnover has to be a split-second maneuver. We could miss our turnover point in the time it took us to call a set of figures to the Station." I see.

"We could probably do the computation ourselves, and much faster. It takes quite a while for a voice to travel from here to the Station."

"Yes," Dr. Phelps agreed. "We'd be better off computing the figures ourselves."

"I could probably handle that. Maybe. But tying that in with the actual navigation . . . that's another thing. Translating figures into actual maneuvers . . ." Forbes shook his head. "And knowing just when to perform the maneuvers . . ."

"But suppose you had to?"

Forbes spread his hands helplessly. "I still couldn't do it, Doc. It's like . . . like asking me to perform brain surgery. Even if I had to, I couldn't."

Dr. Phelps nodded glumly. "I see."

"Dan!"

The voice was barely a whisper. It shuddered across the cabin like a hoarse wind from a mountain-top.

"Dan!"

Forbes shoved himself away from the instrument panel. "George!" he shouted, his eyes brightening. "George, boy, George!"

In spite of the heavy sandals, he crossed the deck like a jack rabbit, pulling himself up short beside

Merola's couch. He kneeled down, his ear close to Merola's face.

"Dan . . . how . . . how long?" Merola asked.

"To braking?" Forbes asked.

Merola opened his mouth as if to speak. He closed it then, as if the effort were too tiring. He nodded his head instead, his eyes clenched tight, his face lax.

"Tomorrow sometime," Forbes answered.

Merola nodded again. He seemed to lapse into unconsciousness once more, and he remained silent for so long that Forbes finally whispered, "George, can you hear me?"

Merola tried to nod his head, his features distorted in pain. "Hurts," he whispered. "Hurts like . . . like the . . ."

"Don't try to talk," Forbes said. "You'll be all right by tomorrow. You'll be able to land us."

There was a long silence, and Ted could hear the heavy breathing of the men. The two doctors were crowded in behind Forbes, anxiously looking down at Merola.

A tired sigh escaped Merola's drawn lips. He shook his head vaguely and whispered, "No . . . won't . . . hurts . . ."

"You'll be fine," Forbes reassured him.

"No," Merola said again. "Boy . . . Jack . . ."

"Jack's not with us, George," Forbes said gently.

Merola nodded weakly, then breathed deeply. "Know ... I know. Ted, I mean. Baker... Baker

Ted's heart quickened at mention of his name. He walked across the cabin, drawing closer to the men, hoping they wouldn't send him off again.

"What about Baker?" Forbes asked, his voice harsh in spite of his obvious attempt to keep it gentle.

"Land . . . Baker . . . Academy boy," Merola mumbled.

"You mean . . ."

A low sigh escaped Merola's lips again; a long, tired, "Oh-h-h-h-h." His eyes flickered briefly, almost as if he were struggling to open them, and then he seemed to sag back against the cushion.

"I think that's all he'll say now," Dr. Phelps said. He pushed his way past Forbes and lifted Merola's hand, his fingers closing around Merola's pulse. "We'd better let him rest."

"Do you think . . .?" Forbes started.

Dr. Phelps shook his head. "No. He won't be strong enough by tomorrow."

"Sirl"

Forbes whirled rapidly. "What are you doing here, Baker?"

"I didn't want to eavesdrop, sir, but I couldn't help hearing what Captain Merola . . ."

"I'm not interested in what you heard," Forbes said tersely.

Ted's eyes flashed with sudden anger. He paused a moment, gaining control of his emotions, and then said, "I could land the ship, sir. At least, I could make a good try at it."

"You're not making a try at anything," Forbes answered. "Not while I'm in command."

"Just a moment," Dr. Phelps put in. "Let's hear the boy out." He turned to face Ted. "What makes you think you can land her?"

"Let him alone," Dr. Phelps snapped. "Can't you see he's got his hands full?"

Forbes retreated into a gloomy silence. The men's faces all turned to the radar screen and the growing picture of the Moon.

"Brace yourselves," Ted said.

The screen was full now, brimming with the Moon's light. The ship descended like a fast-moving elevator, its jet trail licking at the surface below.

"A few more seconds," Ted said.

The ground came up suddenly, pitted, pockmarked. It filled the screen completely, blotting out the sky.

"This is it!" Ted shouted.

He pressed a button, and the engines stopped abruptly. Quickly Ted stabbed at another button, watching the indicator that showed the landing stilts were telescoping out of the ship.

"We're coming down too fast," Forbes screamed.

There was the sudden scrape of metal against rock. It screeched through the ship like the spine-curdling wail of chalk across a blackboard.

"Hold tight," Ted warned.

The high whine of twisting, wrenching metal filled the cabin. The ship gave a sudden lurch to port, and Ted knew the landing stilt on that side had buckled beneath the too-rapidly descending weight of the rocket. He pressed a button on the panel in an attempt to retract that stilt, but his efforts led to more splintering noises. And above these, like the whine of a buzz saw combined with the crashing sound of spilling garbage cans, Ted heard the deafening roar of the rocket tubes digging into the Moon's surface. Sudden fear raced through his nerves, and he felt a fine sheet of sweat burst out all over his body. The rocket teetered dangerously now, and he clung to the side of his couch. There was one last scream of tearing metal, and then the ship gave a convulsive shudder and settled back against the ground, still tilting to port.

Forbes was the first man out of his couch. He dropped to the deck and walked quickly to Merola's couch. He peered in, satisfied himself that the captain was all right, and then walked to the viewport.

"You've done it, Baker," he said bitterly. "This time you've really done it.'

Dr. Gehardt dropped to the deck, testing his long strides against the new-found gravity. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Baker's smashed our landing gear, that's for sure," Forbes answered, "and he's probably crippled the living daylights out of our tubes."

Dr. Gehardt walked over to the viewport and stood alongside Forbes. "We can repair those, can't we?"

"Maybe," Forbes said briefly. "Now you'd better ask Wonder Boy where we are."

Dr. Gehardt turned to Ted. "Well?" he asked.

Ted nervously wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I don't know," he answered.

"Well, I know," Forbes put in. "Take a look out there, Doc."

Dr. Gehardt peered through the viewport, his eyes softening. "The Moon," he said simply, and there was wonder in his voice and a note of humbleness.

"Sure, the Moon. And darkness. Darkness."

Dr. Phelps crowded up against the viewport. "What's so strange about that?"

"Nothing strange about it at all. Except that at this phase of the Moon, our supplies should be in the sunlight. If we'd landed near our supplies, there'd be no darkness outside."

"Then we are not near our supplies?"

"I must have turned the ship over too soon," Ted said. "I just fouled up, I guess. I shouldn't have tried it."

"You should have thought of that beforehand," Forbes said. He whirled from the viewport and crossed the cabin.

"What are you going to do?" Dr. Gehardt asked. He was still worried-looking, his face tired and drawn.

"I'm going to radio the Station. Maybe they can tell us just how badly Baker fouled up." He sat down in a chair riveted to the deck before the powerful radio transmitter, closed a knife switch without hesitation. The gentle hum of the transmitter filled the cabin, and Ted waited as it warmed up.

His shoulders slumped, and he kept his head bent. He wanted to crawl under one of the couches and hide there. He wanted to bury his face in his hands and turn away from the eyes of the other men. He wanted to die.

"Moon rocket calling Space Station," Forbes's voice said into the microphone. "Hello, Space Station, this is Moon rocket. Come in, Space Station." He paused and fiddled with one of the dials. "Hello, Space Station, Space Station, Space Station. This is Moon rocket calling Space Station. Can you hear me, Space Station?"

A brief crackle of static erupted from the loudspeaker on the bulkhead.

"Hello, Space Station," Forbes went on, "this is Moon rocket calling. Come in, Space Station."

There was static again, and then a voice intruded into the static, a voice that sounded distant. It wavered and fell, distorted enormously, but it was inteUigible. "Hello, Moon rocket, this is Space Station. Come in, Moon rocket."

"Lieutenant Forbes on Moon rocket reporting crash landing. Do you read me, Space Station?"

"We read you, Moon rocket. State your message."

'Time: 2134. Repeat, 2134. Estimated time of landing: 2130. Report crash landing. Damage unknown. Assume landing stilts and blasting tubes damaged. Present position unknown. Request approximate position. Over."

"Hello, Forbes. This is General Pepper. Any casualties aboard? Over."

"Yes, sir. Captain Merola suffered head injury during flight. He's still in a state of unconsciousness. Over."

"That boy with you? Baker? Over." "Yes, sir. Over."

Ted waited breathlessly as a burst of static splintered the silence.

"Just tell him he'll be in hot water when you get back here, Forbes. Now stand by while I get that fix you requested."

"Roger."

Ted expected Forbes to smile at the news. Instead, Forbes kept his eyes on the transmitter readings, apparently too occupied to allow Ted's misfortune to disturb him. Ted sighed heavily. Hot water, the general had said.

"Hello, Forbes. Have you got a map there? Over."

"Stand by, sir." Forbes snapped his fingers and pointed to one of the drawers. Dr. Phelps quickly opened the drawer and pulled out a sheaf of maps. He brought these to Forbes, and the lieutenant spread them on the table before him. "Yes, sir, I've got a map. Over."

"We tracked you all the way up, Forbes. Figured something was wrong when you began turnover ahead of schedule. Have you got a pencil? Over."

"Yes, sir. Over."

"All right, start marking. Your supplies are in Mare Imbrium, over on the Eastern half of the Moon. Three miles east of the crater Archimedes. Have you got that point?"

"Stand by, sir. Yes, yes, here it is. Over."

"All right, mark it. Those are your supplies."

"Roger. And where are we, sir?"

There was a long pause. The static crackled into the compartment as they waited for the general's voice again.

"You're not going to like this, Forbes. We tracked you as you came down, and we re pretty sure this is the ship we've got in the screens now. At any rate, it's in the area you were falling toward."

"I see, sir. And where is that?"

"You're in Mare Crisium."

"Roger. Stand by, sir." Forbes bent over the map studying it. He scratched his head, then, and picked up the microphone. "I can't seem to locate that, sir."

"Where are you looking, Forbes?"

"Well, quite a ways over to the West. I figure we crashed in darkness and . . ." "How far over?"

"The area around Mare Serenitatis."

"You're not far enough over, Forbes. Keep going. You're almost on the Western rim."

"Stand by, sir." Forbes consulted the map again, and then seemed to recoil from the microphone. "Did you say Mare Crisium, sir?"

"You've found it?"

"Yes, sir. But . . . but it's . . . it's quite a distance from . . ."

"You're approximately one thousand miles from the supplies, Forbes. Mark your position in the center of Mare Crisium."

Forbes's hand moved to the map, and he scribbled something onto its surface.

"I've marked it, sir."

"Have you got both positions marked?" "Yes, sir."

"It looks bad, doesn't it?"

Forbes looked at the map, sighing heavily.

"Yes, sir," he said. "It looks very bad."

"I'm contacting Earth now, Forbes," the general said. "I'm trying to see what we can do about getting more supplies to you. Stand by for radio contact in an hour. And keep your chin up."

"Roger. Out."

Forbes opened the knife switch, and the transmitter clicked off. Without the hum, it was suddenly very quiet in the cabin.

Forbes swung the swivel chair around and folded his hands in his lap. "Well," he said, "you heard."

"They'll get supplies to us," Dr. Gehardt said confidently.

"I'm not so sure."

"It should be simple," Dr. Phelps put in. "They wouldn't need a crew. Just unmanned rockets like the ones that took the other supplies here."

"Mm-m-m," Forbes murmured. He held out the map. "Take a look at this."

The men studied the map, and Forbes shook his head forlornly. "A thousand miles," he said. "And he was probably giving it to us in round figures. It's probably more than that."

"Why worry about the distance?" Dr. Gehardt asked. "If they send up more supplies, we can forget about the others."

"Sure, /ƒ."

"Is there a chance they won't?"

"I don't know. There must be some doubt or the Old Man wouldn't have had to call Earth."

"That's true," Dr. Phelps said.

Ted stood by the viewport, listening. He was filled with a deep sadness, a sadness that permeated every bone in his body. No matter how much he tried to convince himself that his motives had been purely unselfish, he couldn't shake the knowledge that it had been he who had crashed the ship and tossed them into their present position. He wanted to go to Forbes and say, "Sir, I'm sorry about everything that's happened, more sorry than you can know. But I really tried my best, and I really did want to help and . . ."

No. No, he could never do that. In the first place, Forbes wouldn't believe him for a moment. He couldn't very well blame the lieutenant, although he felt Forbes's judgment had been a trifle too hasty. It was something like condemning a man to be hanged before he'd been given a trial. Forbes had based his entire case on a batch of innocent questions Ted had asked.

He had started with the basic assumption that Ted willingly and wilfully considered taking Jack's place on the Moon rocket. From there, his theory had snowballed with remarkable rapidity, until he further assumed that Ted had deliberately kayoed Jack and had come aboard in his place. After that, Forbes's imagination had taken over completely, and there were no limits to the extent of his accusations. Why, Ted wouldn't be surprised if Forbes secretly blamed him for Merola's injury ... as ... as a ruse ... a trick to give Ted a chance at landing the ship!

Well, he was here, and he'd have to make the best of it. Of one thing he was certain. He could not convince Forbes of his honest intentions by any amount of talking. Forbes had made up his mind, and Ted appeared in that mind as a double-dyed villain.

In a way, he was sorry about the ill feeling Forbes carried for him, sorrier in a way that went beyond his own personal discomfort. Forbes had seemed like a nice guy, a person Ted would have enjoyed knowing better. Him and Merola. On the brief trip to the Space Station, he had found himself admiring the way these two men seemed to complement each other. He somehow sensed that a friendship such as theirs was a rare combination, and he felt himself wishing he could somehow be included in the duet. It was almost as if Forbes and Merola thought with the same mind. Whenever Merola started the first line of a gag, Forbes would grin in anticipation, almost as if he knew the punch fine from the start. They seemed to share a secret thing between them, a mutual bond that required neither words nor gestures to make meanings clear.

Ted would have liked to explore this bond more fully and eventually become a friend of both men.

It seemed that that was impossible now.

A number of things seemed impossible now. The general's words. What had he meant, Ted wondered. Washout, expulsion from the Academy? Or worse? What could be worse? What could be worse than washout in your senior year?

Or should he be worrying about washout? Would he ever get back to the Station to face court-martial?

Survival.

Survival on the Moon. Yes, that was another problem, a definite . . . "Baker!"

It was Forbes's voice. Ted turned from the viewport, ready for whatever was coming next. "Yes, sir."

"We re going outside, Baker." "Very good, sir."

"You're coming with us," Forbes said. "Sir?"

"You heard me." "Yes, sir."

"Are you wondering why I'm allowing you to set foot on the Moon? Are you wondering why I'm allowing you that pleasure and honor?"

"Yes, sir," Ted said. "I am a bit surprised."

it, dropping slowly to the ground. Ted dropped down beside him.

The night sky covered them like a black hood pinpointed with endless miles of bright white holes. The sky started abruptly where the land ended, with stars dancing on the horizon, almost close enough to touch, it seemed. Like a sprawling wisp of smoke above, the Milky Way trailed across the blackness of the sky.

There was a brittle feeling of crispness everywhere. Ted knew it was intensely cold outside, even though his battery-powered suit heater kept him comfortable. There was no dust, no cloud, no mist, no fog—no sound.

There was only a clear stillness, a stillness as deep and as cold as the void of space.

They stood together in a tight knot, the first men to land on the Moon. They said nothing, and Ted felt a sudden bond with the other men, a bond bred of the eerie silence.

"It's . . . it's awfully quiet," Forbes said, his voice faintly distorted in the suit radio.

"Yes," Dr. Gehardt replied.

"George would have liked this," Forbes said, a tired remorse replacing the bitterness in his voice. Ted felt the same hopeless desire to know the man better, to share the inner workings of his mind.

There were no emotions visible through the darkened face plates of the men's helmets. They stood about stiffly, as if they were uncomfortable in these strange surroundings. Ted had no way of knowing what the other men were feeling. He could only guess.

Forbes: the dream realized. Elation and disappointment. Elation because the dream was realized. And disappointment because the unconscious Merola was not here to share it.

Dr. Gehardt: the scientific puzzle. Craters to he investigated, rocks to be weighed and tested, minerals to be discovered. A new world of new experiences.

Dr. Phelps: the challenge. A careful analysis of physical stamina as pitted against this land of violently opposite temperatures and unfriendly terrain. The human machine against nature. And he was the mechanic who kept the machine running.

And Ted?

There was no guesswork there. No, he knew exactly what he was feeling. It was a mixture of awe and pride, of humbleness and pulsing excitement, of joy and sadness. It was all those things mixed into a crazy ball that throbbed in his throat.

"Let's look around," Forbes said.

They started out across the floor of Mare Crisium, the mare that meant "sea" in Latin, named long ago when scientists thought the darker areas on the Moon were actually seas. All of the maria had been given fanciful Latin names, and Ted thought of them briefly as they picked their way over the jagged, razor-sharp rocks underfoot.

Mare Nectaris: the Sea of Nectar.

Mare Serenitatis: the Sea of Tranquillity.

Mare Nubium: the Sea of Clouds.

Mare Imbrium: the Sea of Showers—and incidentally the sea that held their supplies at the moment.

He had learned the names of the thirty-odd gray areas during astronomy classes as the Academy, and he marveled at his memory of them now.

Mare Crisium. That's where they were now. The Sea of Crises. It had been aptly named, Ted thought. A thousand miles from their supplies, they were indeed facing a crisis. The Moon had chosen a fitting background.

He turned his head within his helmet as he walked, breathing in the oxygen that flowed from the tank strapped to his back.

He wondered exactly how cold it was outside. Probably somewhere down around 200 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. Despite the chemical sprayed on the inside of his face plate, despite the heat circulating throughout the suit, the plate was beginning to frost up around the edges.

He was suddenly thankful for the protection of the suit. He shivered involuntarily, picturing himself out on the surface of the Moon without a space suit. He almost stumbled over a sharp rock, righted himself quickly, and kept his eyes on the ground as he walked.

The floor of the mare was covered with a dark gray pumice that stirred lazily as he pushed his heavy boots through it. It did not linger long above the ground. It was not lifted on gusts of wind because there was no wind. It was not held aloft in the air because there was no air. It drifted back as soon as they passed through it, silently, effortlessly.

A huge, barren, desolate wasteland seemed to spread around them endlessly.

That, and the silence. Almost a physical force, almost a part of the Moon, as much a part of the

to the ship. He suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and said, "There's something George would want to try if he were out here with us."

Without further preamble, he leaped into the air, rising high above the heads of the other men and coming down in a cloud of pumice some twenty feet away.

"Be careful," Dr. Phelps warned. "This gravity can be tricky."

"And the rocks are sharp," Dr. Gehardt added.

"I'm all right," Forbes assured them.

Ted thought back to the Academy classes again, remembering the many times Colonel York had gone over the gravity of Earth's satellite.

He would stand in the front of the room, his beady eyes blinking.

"I can see by your blank expression," he would say to the assembled class, "that you have no idea what this means. I will explain further, but only because I am a patient man. Gravity on the Moon's surface is one-sixth that of Earth's." He would pause then and tap his riding crop as he studied his class. "Still no impression, eh?" Shouting, then: "That means that a man weighing 175 pounds on Earth would weigh 29 1/6 pounds on the Moon. That means that he could lift his center of gravity six times as high. That means he'd be able to jump long distances, lift heavy weights six times as easily. Does that penetrate, gentlemen?" A sigh, and a long pause. "Heaven protect us if any of you are the first men to land on the Moon!"

What would Colonel York say if he knew that Ted Baker was one of the first men on the Moon? Ted wondered about this, and he remembered what the colonel had said in one of his rare introspective moments.

"If we ever reach the Moon, gentlemen, during my lifetime, I shall kneel down and kiss Mother Earth—and then I'll drink a glass of port and smoke a fifty-cent cigar in tribute to the ingenious scientists with whom we are blessed."

Was the colonel enjoying his cigar now? Or was he wondering about the men who'd brought the ship to the Moon? Ted smiled, fondly recalling the irascible, lovable old man.

Forbes was standing again, brushing the pumice from his knees, as if he were flicking a speck of dirt from a tuxedo. Ted longed to test the gravity, too, trying to visualize himself floating through the air. It's a bird, he thought wryly. No, it's a plane! No, it's Ted Baker! Faster than a flashing meteor, able to leap tall rocket ships: Ted Baker, who is in reality . . .

He cut his commercial short when he heard Forbes's voice sound in his helmet receiver. "Snap it up, Baker. We haven't got all day."

No, Forbes wouldn't like it at all if he were to try a leap. Not at all. Ted shrugged his shoulders within the suit and shuffled after the other men. They climbed up the side of the ship, and Ted found himself peering over his shoulder, looking down at the cold, lifeless waste of the Moon.

They climbed into the air lock, sealing the door behind them. Forbes set the pressurizing machinery in action, and they waited while the pressure in the lock equalized itself to that inside the rest of the ship. The light finally began blinking over the inner door of the lock.

Forbes opened the door and stepped into the compartment below the control deck. Quickly the men took off their helmets.

"My face plate is all frosted over," Forbes said.

"I am not usually a man of extreme statements," Dr. Gehardt said, wagging his bald head. "But I should say it is colder out there than we have ever known it to be cold—and I have known it to be exceedingly cold at times."

Forbes nodded. "No wonder. Figure it this way. The highest and lowest temperatures ever recorded on Earth are 136° and —94° Fahrenheit. We can expect it to go higher than the temperature of boiling water here—212 degrees—and as low as 250° below zero. That's hot and cold for you!"

"I'm anxious to see how George is getting along," Dr. Phelps said. He had removed his suit and was starting toward the ladder that led to the control deck.

Forbes remembered Merola suddenly, and the smile dropped from his face. He shot a quick glance at Ted and then turned away to follow Dr. Phelps up the ladder.

Ted and Dr. Gehardt were left alone in the compartment, and Ted sensed that the geologist was uncomfortable in his presence. The doctor struggled with the back of his suit, trying to unfasten his oxygen tank. He wrestled with it for several moments and then turned to Ted.

He hesitated, unsure whether or not he should speak. "I . . . would you be so kind . . ."

of our stilts is shot, and I think our tubes are damaged pretty badly."

"Oh!" Merola looked around. "Where's Baker?"

"Here, sir."

"Come here where I can see you," Merola said. Ted shouldered his way through the tight ring around the couch. "Yes, sir," he said. "Was it tough, Baker?" "I miscalculated, sir." "So I understand."

"I'm really sorry, sir. I didn't mean to . . ." "Were there any casualties?" Merola asked. "No, sir."

"Anyone injured?" He repeated. "No, sir."

"Considering everything then, I'd say you did a fairly good job."

"Maybe you won't feel that way when . . ." Forbes started.

"Dan!" Dr. Phelps cut in. "For the love of . . ." He clamped his mouth shut suddenly, as if he'd realized his outburst was as bad as Forbes's. The cabin became silent, and Merola studied the faces grouped around the couch.

"All right," he said at last, "what is it?"

"Nothing," Dr. Phelps answered.

"What is it?" Merola repeated. He looked very tired.

"Maybe Baker should tell you," Forbes said.

"Why don't you tell me, Dan?"

"All right, George. We're . . ."

"Dan!" Dr. Phelps snapped. "There's no sense . . ."

"He's got a right to know. He's in command, and it's his ship."

There was silence again. Dr. Phelps shrugged in resignation. Forbes took a deep breath and said, "We're about a thousand miles from the supplies. Baker took us down in the wrong spot." He said it all in a rush, as if anxious to get it over with.

Merola considered the information for a moment, then scratched his head. "That's not so good."

"You can thank Baker," Forbes said bitterly.

"I can thank Baker we're still alive," Merola snapped.

For an instant, both men stared at each other. Forbes licked his lips quickly, and a hurt expression flickered in his eyes and then was gone immediately.

Merola shook his head as if trying to clear it. "I'm sorry I shouted, Dan," he said. "I guess I'm still a little groggy."

"Sure," Forbes answered. His face tried a smile that didn't work.

"Can we get more supplies?" Merola asked.

"Maybe. The Station's checking with Earth now. They're going to call back in . . ." His eyes swept to the bulkhead chrono. "Holy crow, it's time!"

He ran across the deck, forgetting the Moon's gravity for a moment, and sailed across the cabin to collide with the viewport.

"Be careful," Merola called, anxiety in his voice.

Forbes got to his feet and worked his shoulder. "I'm okay," he said. He squeezed into the chair behind the transmitter and closed the knife switch.

The heavy gear hummed into the cabin, and Ted looked around at the faces of the other men.

Dr. Phelps was leaning against the support of the couch above Merola. His lips were pressed together, making his mouth look wider somehow than it was. His black brows were pulled together into a tight knot over his nose. He stroked his long, angular jaw and stared at Forbes fiddling with the dials.

Dr. Gehardt seemed to have retreated inside his coveralls, almost as if he were seeking refuge there. His shining pate poked out over the neck of the coveralls like a turtle's emerging head. He rubbed the back of his hand across his small nose and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.

Merola's eyelids blinked rapidly as he lay back against the cushions. He tapped his fingers nervously against the side of the couch. His eyes were curiously serious. He stared at the bulkhead, not looking at anyone in the cabin, and yet Ted felt he knew everything that was going on around him—like some sort of electronic brain computing impulses of sound into meanings.

"It'll be a while until this warms up," Forbes said. "Have you got any idea where we are?" Merola asked.

"Sure. Mare Crisium."

Merola whistled softly. "That's a far shout from Mare Imbrium." "Yeah."

"Is it dark outside?"

"Yes," Dr. Gehardt replied.

"That figures. It would be dark in Mare Crisium at this phase of the Moon. We'll have to find out exactly how old the Moon's day is. The Station should be able to help us on that."

Forbes swung the chair around as a blast of static sounded from the receiver. He twisted a dial, lowering the volume. A voice suddenly intoned, . . ing Moon rocket. Come in, Moon rocket. Space Station calling Moon rocket. Come in, Moon rocket."

"Hello, Space Station, this is Moon rocket standing by. Over."

"I'll make this quick because I don't want you to use your batteries any more than you have to." Ted recognized General Pepper's voice, and he listened intently as the general went on. "I've contacted Earth, Forbes. There are no supply rockets available at present. Repeat, there are no supply rockets available at present. Have you got that?" Y-y-yes, sir.

"Ask him how soon," Merola prompted.

"How soon, sir?" Forbes repeated.

"I was coming to that, Forbes. You've got to understand that this is an unforeseen accident. The only supply rockets we had were sent to the Moon a long while ago. They're waiting for you now in Mare Imbrium."

"I understand that, sir. But . . ."

"We didn't figure we'd need more rockets, and there simply aren't any. You can understand that, can't you, Forbes?" Yes, sir.

There was a long pause, a static-filled interlude.

"Well, Forbes, I'll give it to you straight. We're starting some new rockets now, going full-speed-ahead on them. It'll take time. A rocket has to be big to carry all the fuel you'll need to get you back here. We'll send a food rocket first, of course, but that'll take time too."

"How long, sir?"

"Six months."

"What?" Merola shouted, leaning forward. He started to get out of the couch, and Dr. Phelps held him down. "Tell that egghead we need . . ."

"Can't we have anything sooner, sir?" Forbes asked.

"This is at top speed, Forbes. It would normally take about two years to build one rocket. We're going to try to get three for you in twelve months."

"Ask him what he expects us to do in the meantime?" Merola shouted.

"sir.. r

"Forbes," the general said sincerely, "I wish there were something more I could do for you, believe me. I can't tell you how happy we are to know that you're alive. Six months is the best we can do. Forbes, believe me, we're . . . well look, we've got everything started already. As soon as you contacted us, work was begun immediately. Everyone is pulling for you, everyone! We've had donations from all over the world. Everyone wants to help. But it's physically impossible to produce in less than six months. Darn it, Forbes, I'd climb up there with my bare hands if I thought it'd do any good."

"I understand, sir."

Merola shook his head sadly. "He's doing all he can, Dan. Tell him we appreciate his help and that we'll . . . we'll. . ."

"We'll what, George?"

"We'll get along, I guess."

Forbes repeated the message into the microphone, and there was another long pause.

"Ask him how old the Moon is," Merola said.

"Sir, can you give us any idea how old the Moon is? Captain Merola would like to know."

"Merola? Is he all right again?"

"Yes, sir. He came around just a little while ago."

"Good, good. May I speak to him?"

"No," Dr. Phelps said quickly.

"Sorry, sir," Forbes said into the microphone, "the doctor won't allow him up."

"Very well," General Pepper said. "Give him my best." He paused awkwardly. "You'll need your batteries, Forbes. We'd better sign off for now. And Forbes . . ."

"Yes, sir?"

"Good luck, Forbes." "Thank you, sir."

"I . . . we're all behind you, Forbes. You and the crew. Tell them we're all behind you."

"Thank you, sir. We'd better . . ."

"Dan, you're forgetting the Moon's age!" Merola shouted.

"Sir? General Pepper?"

"Yes, Forbes?"

"Are you getting that information we wanted?" "Yes, yes, just one moment, Forbes." There was a long static-filled pause. Forbes sat at the transmitter, the microphone clutched in his fist. "Hello, Forbes?" Yes, sir.

"The Moon is now eighteen days old. About nine and one-third days to New Moon."

"I've got that, sir."

"Good luck again, Forbes. And . . ." He paused and then murmured, "Out."

Forbes pulled at the knife switch, killing the transmitter. He folded his arms on the small table before the gear and dropped his head into them. "Six months."

Ted digested the information. Six months. That was a long time. It would be a long time anywhere. It could be forever on the Moon. A wash of guilt flooded his body. If he hadn't brought the ship down in the wrong spot, there'd be no trouble now. The men would be concentrating on building a Lunar base instead of . . .

"We'll go after the supplies," Merola said suddenly.

Forbes lifted his head from his arms and stared at the captain. "A thousand miles," he said.

"We can travel close to 300 miles a day up here," Merola said. "It shouldn't take us more than a little over three days."

"I wouldn't advise it," Dr. Phelps said.

"Why not?"

"The heat. The Moon is now eighteen days old. That means that the area to the East of us is still in sunlight, and will be for another nine days."

"We'll wait a week, then," Merola said. "In seven days, Mare Imbrium should be in darkness. We'll be able to travel by night and come back by night."

"Plow do you figure that?" Forbes asked.

"No, I'm wrong," Merola said, shaking his head. "If we wait a week and then start, it would take us three days to reach the supplies, and by that time the sun already would be rising on the Western rim. We'd be caught in sunlight before we got back to the ship." He scratched at his chin and thought silently for a few moments. "Get me a piece of paper, will you, Dan?"

Forbes opened one of the drawers and pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil. He crossed the cabin and handed it to Merola.

"Now, let's see," Merola said. "It takes the sun approximately fourteen days to cross the face of the Moon. The Moon's diameter is 2,160 miles ... so if we divide that by fourteen . . . let's see . . ." He scribbled a few figures on the paper, his brow wrinkled. "That's approximately 154 miles every day.

Right?'

"Approximately," Forbes said. "I don't understand what you're trying to do," Dr. Phelps said.

"I'm just trying to figure out when we'd have to start from here in order to reach Mare Imbrium in darkness and make the trip back in darkness. You see, the Sun is now retreating across the face of the Moon at the rate of approximately 154 miles a day. Now, if we can work up some sort of a chart here."

Quickly, Merola began writing on the sheet of paper, scribbling in figures and words:

1st day 2nd 3rd 4th 5th 6th 7th

"All right," Forbes said, "now explain it."

"Simple," Merola answered, grinning. "The top line is simply a listing of the days. The second line shows how many miles the retreating Sun will have traveled at the end of each day. And the bottom line shows how many miles the supply party will have traveled at the end of each day."

Forbes studied Merola's figures for a moment. "In other words, if we leave here four days from now, the area of sunlight will always be ahead of us. We'll be traveling by 'night' all the time."

"Right. By the end of the seventh day, darkness will have spread approximately 1,078 miles from our present position. We should reach Mare Imbrium just as 'night' is falling there—or maybe a little after 'night' has fallen."

"And what about getting back?" Forbes asked.

"The Moon is now eighteen days old. Add the three-day wait and the four days to get us to the supplies, and that makes 25 days. Another two and one-third days for the Moon to be in complete darkness. And another four days for the rising Sun to reach our present position. That gives us six and two-thirds days to get back here while it's still dark. That's plenty of time, even if we're carrying a full load."

"It might work," Forbes said.

"What about oxygen?" Dr. Phelps asked.

"We'll only need enough to get us to the supply dump. We can load up there for the return trip."

"That's still a lot of oxygen," Forbes put in. "Each cylinder carries only enough for about twelve hours."

"I figure two men will go," Merola said. "They'll be a little more than three days getting to the supplies

. . . two cylinders of oxygen for each day . . . that means each man will need six cylinders of oxygen. We'll give each eight, just to make sure."

"That's impossible," Dr. Gehardt said. 'They'd never be able to carry that many."

"No, they wouldn't," Merola said, his eyes clouding.

"Not on their backs, anyway," Forbes said.

"Do they have to carry them on their backs?" Ted asked. Forbes shot a glance at him, and Ted regretted speaking as soon as the words had left his mouth.

"Baker's right," Merola said, the spark leaping into his eyes again. "We can build a sled or something, and pile the cylinders onto it. We could make it that way!"

"Maybe," Forbes said.

The men fell silent, and Ted knew they were each weighing the chances of reaching the supply dump alive.

"What about food?" Dr. Phelps asked. "You won't be able to open your face plates out there. How will you eat?"

"We'll carry tubes of chocolate in our helmets," Merola answered quickly. "That'll keep us going." "For ten days?" "It'll have to do."

"One question," Forbes said. "What happens when we reach the supply dump? Do we bring back enough material to keep us on the Moon indefinitely?"

"That would be impossible."

"Sure. It would also be impossible to bring back enough fuel to get us off the Moon."

"To get us back to Earth, you mean," Merola corrected.

"I don't follow you," Forbes said.

"We can bring back enough to get us off the Moon, if we plan on dropping back to the Moon again."

"What good would that do?" Forbes wanted to know.

"It means we can bring back just enough fuel to allow us to blast off and come down again near the supply dump. After that, our worries are over."

Dr. Phelps nodded his head. "Enough fuel to get us to Mare Imbrium, you mean."

"Exactly."

Forbes nodded too. "It might work. It just might work."

"Providing," Dr. Gehardt put in. "Providing what?"

"Well, I hate to be a wet blanket, gentlemen, but what happens to the men who remain behind? How will they survive? Will the batteries hold out? Will there be enough food? Enough water? Enough oxygen? Or will the returning party find a ship full of dead men?"

"I hadn't thought of that," Merola admitted.

"What difference does it make?" Forbes asked

"Well make a check," Merola said. "If the men left behind can t possibly survive . . ." He paused and scratched his chin. "Heck, I don't know what to say."

"If there's any doubt about it," Forbes said, "we'll all make the trip together."

"Do we have enough oxygen?"

"I think we'd better check."

"Okay, Dan. And while you're checking the oxygen cylinders, you might as well go down below and see how the batteries are holding up."

"Roger."

Forbes grinned briefly and started for the hatch in the deck. He took two long strides, pulling up short beside the hatch. Quickly, he turned the wheel and pulled back the lid. As he started belowdecks, Merola turned back to the other men.

"Dr. Phelps, I'd like you to check our food. Dr. Gehardt, will you check our water supply?"

"Certainly."

The two doctors started off, and Ted fidgeted uncomfortably, standing by Merola's couch.

"I think it'll work, Baker," Merola said. "If we can bring back enough fuel for a blastoff to the supply dump, we can stay on the Moon as long as we like."

"Yes, sir," Ted said.

"Does that mean you agree with me, or are you just being polite?"

"I don't know, sir. I mean, I don't know if it 11 work. A thousand miles seems like such a long distance."

"Well, it's not exactly right around the corner."

"That's what I mean, sir. The two men who go. They'll be out there for ten days. Will their suit batteries last that long?"

Merola considered this. "They may be able to replace their batteries at the dump. In fact, I'm quite sure they can. That means they'll only need their batteries for the four-day trip to the dump."

"Three and one-third days, sir," Ted corrected.

"Yes, of course."

Dr. Gehardt made his way across the cabin, shaking his head. He stopped before Merola and smoothed the skin back on the top of his head. "It doesn't look good, George," he said.

"How much water?"

"A little more than four gallons."

"No, that's not good at all." Merola paused. "But it'll have to do." He turned his head quickly as he heard footsteps. Dr. Phelps crossed the cabin, a sheet of paper in his hands.

"What's the story, Doc?" Merola asked.

"Not too bad," the physician replied. "Not too bad."

"How bad?"

"Well, we won't eat like kings, of course, but I don't suppose any of us expected to." "What is it, Doc?"

"If we cut down to half-rations, our food'll last two weeks. If we're careful. That'll give us just enough for the four-day wait and the ten days the men will be gone."

"Good. If Dan reports affirmative on the oxygen, he and I will be leaving in four days." "What?" "I said . . ."

"I heard you. I heard what you said." "Well, then . . ."

"That blow on your head must have really unbalanced you."

"What do you mean, Doc?"

"I mean that you are in no condition to get out of that couch, no less travel a thousand miles in freezing temperatures."

"Doc!"

"No 'docs' about it, George. You're not leaving that couch. That's an order." "I thought I was in command of this ship." "Not when it comes to physical welfare." He paused, then added, "And if you get out of that couch, I can't promise you you'll be in command very long." "Look, Doc . .

"I'm not being foolish or stubborn, George. I'm being practical and maybe a little selfish. I can guarantee that you're not strong enough to reach the supply dump. If you went, the effectiveness of the mission would be cut exactly in half."

Merola considered this a moment. "You're sure?"

"I'm positive. That blow was a nasty one."

"Maybe . . ."

"No, George. Forget it."

Merola shrugged and let out his breath. "Wholl go then?"

"I'd volunteer myself," Dr. Phelps said, "but that would defeat the purpose of keeping you here. That wound is going to need care during the next few weeks."

"I'll go," Dr. Gehardt said simply. Dr. Phelps avoided the geologist's eyes. "I wouldn't advise that, either, Fred." ^Why not?"

"The trip should really have a more ... a younger man along. It will be somewhat strenuous, Fred."

Dr. Gehardt smiled. "I didn't really think I should go, Peter. But I thought, perhaps . . ."

"That leaves you, Baker," Merola said. "What do you say?"

"I don't know, sir. Lieutenant Forbes might . . ." "How do you feel about it?" "Whatever you say, sir."

"Okay," Forbes piped from the hatch. "There are

On the second day the temperature dropped to -223°.

On the third day with the temperature at —230°, they finished the sled and began stacking the oxygen cylinders, passing them down the side of the ship with slender wire cables. They strapped the cylinders to the sled, using a buckle arrangement which could be loosened or tightened when wearing heavy gloves. The sled was a simple affair with four crossbars welded onto two runners. It would not be difficult to pull it across the face of the Moon, and the men were counting on the fight gravity for help.

On the morning of the fourth day—morning only because the ship's chrono said 0730, even though it was still "night" on the Moon—Ted and Forbes left the ship. The temperature outside was 238° below zero.

The insides of their helmets were fined with containers of hot chocolate and vitamin concentrates. The rubber tubes on the containers trailed around the inside of Ted's helmet like a nest of garden snakes. He had only to move his head in order to reach any one of the tubes with his mouth.

Both he and Forbes wore several layers of woolen underwear beneath their coveralls. They had both put on three pairs of heavy woolen socks, tucking the legs of their coveralls into the tops of the socks. Their suit batteries sent electricity running to the coils that zigzagged through the inside lining of each suit. As long as their batteries lasted, they would be warm.

Their face plates had been sprayed with a frost-resisting chemical, and rubber ducts had been cemented in place just below the plates. These ducts were connected to small blowers which would force blasts of hot air against the face plates should these begin to freeze up.

The belts strapped around their waists carried hammers, screw drivers, pliers, rubber tape, wire.

That was the extent of their equipment—that, and the sled they would tow behind them, the sled carrying the oxygen to sustain them on their trip.

They paused outside the ship, and Ted looked up at the viewport. Dr. Gehardt waved down. Dr. Phelps stood beside him, his features blurred by the distance.

Silently, Ted and Forbes started for the sled.

Forbes stooped down and picked up the wire tow strap.

"Let's get something straight right from the start, Baker," he said over the suit radio. Ted listened, knowing in a way what was coming—and fervently wishing he was wrong. "If I had my way, I'd make this trip alone rather than with you. Have you got that?"

"I've got it," Ted said, surprised at the tone of his own voice.

"Good. You'll obey orders on this trip, and the less conversation the better. All I'm interested in is getting there and back."

"That's all I'm interested in," Ted said.

"Do you know the route we're taking?"

"Yes."

"We'll go over it again, just to make sure."

Forbes reached into a pouch hanging from his waist strap and pulled out a map which he unfolded clumsily. He laid a heavily gloved hand, forefinger extended, on the paper.

"We're here in Mare Crisium. Well travel east across Mare Serenitatis, crossing just above the Caucasus Mountains. We'll pass between the craters Aristillus and Autolycus, past Archimedes, and we should find the supply dump from there. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Cut out the 'sir' stuff, Baker. I told you once before. You don't deserve the honor of using Air Force tradition."

"Have it your own way," Ted said.

"That's just the way I will have it. Let's get moving." Forbes folded the map and pushed it into the pouch. Without another word, he picked up the tow strap again, waiting for Ted to get a grip on it too.

Silently, they began moving.

The sled was light, or at least it was not heavy. They pulled it with comparative ease, trying to match their strides. Ted glanced back occasionally, afraid the cylinders would tumble off the sled, but they seemed to be securely strapped. Set on the inside of his helmet, just to the left of his face plate, and partly obscured by the maze of rubber tubes jutting out of the containers, was a luminous chrono. Ted checked the time: 0735. In just twelve hours they'd have to change oxygen cylinders, ditching the spent ones. 0735, less the five minutes they'd spent studying the map. That made it 0730. They'd have to make the change at 1930.

The Moon seemed quieter than it had been on the day they claimed it. The stars spread around them in unwavering brightness, clear and sharply detailed. What an astronomer s paradise, Ted thought. No atmosphere to cloud proper viewing. And so far up in the sky! Closer to the planets than Man had ever been. "The gateway to interplanetary flight," Jack had said. If the trip were a success. Ted thought of Jack now, wondering what was going on at the Space Station. He tried to picture the situation as it would be if Jack had made the trip as he was supposed to. Even assuming Jack's collarbone had not withstood the strain of acceleration, what then? He consoled himself with the proposition that Dr. Phelps would now have had two injured men on his hands rather than one. Assuming, of course, that Merola would have injured himself even if Jack had been along. That was foolish. Ted certainly didn't believe that any one factor in a series of events could be changed without subsequently changing the entire series. Jack may not have spotted the loose rivet, in which case Merola would not have attempted to fix it, in which case he would not have been injured, in which case he would have landed the rocket himself—probably with great success.

On the other hand, if the loose rivet had not been spotted, the seam might have weakened and split, in which case the entire crew might have been lost together with the ship.

It was futile to figure on what-might-have-hap-pened-t/.

Jack hadn't been on the trip, and Ted had. The loose rivet had been discovered. Merola was injured. The rocket was damaged. And the supplies were a long way off. Those were the facts. They could not be changed unless everything leading up to them was also changed.

Ted felt himself stumbling, and he dropped the tow line in an effort to maintain his balance.

"Watch your step!" Forbes snapped.

Ted planted his feet firmly on the ground and picked up the line again. He heard Forbes exhale, the sound carrying to Ted over the radio. Forbes was probably shaking his head within his helmet, suffering with the knowledge that Ted was an unwelcome companion.

Well, Forbes could take it or leave it! Ted wasn't particularly delighted with his presence, either.

They passed over a partially rock-covered stretch of ground, and Ted noticed that the outcroppings were unusually sharp and jagged. He wondered what would happen if one of them fell onto a sharp rock splinter, and the thought sent a chill over his flesh. With the temperature at 238° below zero, a tear in the suit would probably mean instant freezing of a part of the body. The thought caused him to glance unconsciously at the battery reading on the dial just above the chrono. It glowed in the darkness of his helmet, the fluorescent needle swinging far to the right to register a positive charge. When that needle nudged the left-hand side of the dial, they'd be in trouble. Without batteries, there'd be no heat. And without heat . . .

Ted shoved the thought aside.

They kept moving, traveling at a fast pace, the time ticking by as they covered mile after mile. They tried to keep the sled away from the rocks, as difficult as it was, knowing that a sharp blow might cause the metal to snap in two because of the extreme cold.

Ted studied the ground as they walked, their strides longer than they would be under normal gravity. There were countless pockmarks underfoot, hundreds upon hundreds of craters of different sizes and shapes.

Ted knew it was the loose custom to call any craterlike object on the Moon a "crater." He also knew, however, that there were a great many types within this loose classification.

The mountain-walled plains were the largest, with Archimedes being a good example of this type. A shiver of apprehension shot through his body as he realized he would soon be seeing this well-known crater with its fifty-mile diameter—if they reached the supplies.

There was always that big if.

He tried not to think of this. He thought of the ship, and he thought of the Space Station, and he thought of the Academy. Colonel York popped into his head again, and he smiled inside his helmet as he thought of the old man. Wouldn't the colonel have loved this? Wouldn't he have hopped for joy to be seeing the various formations he'd taught about day after day.

The mountain-ringed plains, smaller in diameter than the "walled" type, and surrounded with circular ramparts as opposed to the only roughly circular or polygonal shape of the walled type.

Or the crater-rings. Wouldn't Colonel York love to see one of those.

"Memorize this!" he would shout to the class. "A crater-ring is anywhere from 3 to 10 miles in diameter, with slightly elevated walls and well-depressed insides. Have you got that? Good! Then see if your minds can absorb another fact. The Moon is dotted with craterlets and crater-pits, each too numerous to count. These are your smallest 'craters/ and they cover the Moon like smallpox."

A smart man, Colonel York, and a good teacher. He sold craters to the class the way one would sell a box of candy. All sizes and shapes, an assortment to choose from.

As small as a dime or a watermelon or a fireman's net or a circular swimming pool. As large as a city block or a county or a state. Take your choice.

I'll choose Earth, thank you, Ted thought.

No craters with 140-mile diameters, please. And no jagged mountain peaks tearing at the sky, higher than Mt. Everest, appearing even higher on the smaller surface of the Moon. You could keep the fighter gravity, too, thanks, and welcome to it.

Earth. Just simple old Earth.

That would be a nice place to be, all right. Clouds and a blue sky, and maybe a plain of waving green grass, and butterflies, and a little brook spilling over.

"Let's take a break," Forbes said suddenly.

The voice startled Ted. "What?"

"I said, 'Let's take a break.' I wish you'd try to catch these things the first time, Baker. I'm not fond of repetition."

"I'm sorry," Ted said. "I guess I was . . ."

"Just skip it."

"Sure." Ted hesitated. "Sure, whatever you say." "You know, Baker, I'm not sure I like your tone." "I'm sorry, sir."

"I'm not sure I like it at all," Forbes persisted. "I said I was sorry, sir." Ted felt the blood rushing to his temples.

"That's what I mean, Baker. The way you said that just now. I didn't like it. Not one bit." "That's unfortunate, sir." "For you, Baker."

"Sure, for me." Ted shrugged his shoulders. He was getting terribly weary of listening to Forbes constantly ride him. He heard Forbes expel his breath inside his helmet, and he knew this wasn't the end of it. He could not see too clearly through Forbes's face plate, but he could well imagine the look on the lieutenant's face.

"Let's shove," Forbes said.

He picked up the tow line and waited for Ted to pick up his end. They started off in silence, a tense wall between them, a wall intensified by the alien terrain, the sharp rocks, the silent pumice, the winking stars, the knowledge that their lives depended on the success of this trip.

The miles slid by underfoot, and the hands on the helmet chrono pointed to 1143. They kept moving, the night an endless thing ahead of them, the Moon waiting like a field of broken glass, the pointed shards of its rocks jutting out of its surface. It was getting more difficult. The sled seemed heavier somehow, and Ted could feel a fine film of sweat on his forehead, despite the bitter cold outside. For a moment he had the insane desire to rip off his helmet and wipe away the sweat. He kept thinking about it, and the desire grew until he actually raised his gloved hand and passed it over his face plate.

The stars began to annoy him. They watched the two struggling figures with aloof disdain, hanging on the horizon, wheeling overhead, steady, dead-white eyes punched into the sweeping sky. Why didn't they stop staring? Why were they so steady? Ted longed for them to stop. With every ounce of energy in his body, he willed them to stop, willed just one lone star to go out.

He began to concentrate on the ground in an effort to take his mind off the stars. He watched the pumice rise as he pushed through it, watched it fall back silently. The ground was colored a deathly gray, like a sick old man on a bed of ashes. It flashed by rapidly as they half-ran, half-walked. Ted watched the rocks and the pockmarks, and the sand, and the pumice, and the cracks. His head began to spin.

He lifted his eyes and stared at the luminous dial of the chrono until the hands etched themselves against his retina.

1150.

1152.

1153.

On and on, across the endless wastes, across the blackness of night, on and on. 1155. 1156.

Nothing broke the stillness. Ted longed for the wail of the wind, for the gentle rustling of leaves clinging to a tree, the shrill call of a train whistle in the darkness. There were none of these.

1158.

1159.

1200.

1201.

Ted was getting weary. His neck muscles hurt from supporting the heavy helmet, and his back muscles ached from pulling the sled. His body felt confined, and he longed for the unfettered freedom of an un-space-suited body. It was getting warm inside the suit, too—much too warm for comfort. The heat of his body was adding to the heat of the coils, and the result was a torrid prison of metal and nylon and rubber. He fumbled on the breastplate of his suit, reaching for the thermostat. The fingers inside his gloved hand felt big and clumsy. Awkwardly, he lowered the control and waited for the suit to cool off a bit.

Time was a world of blackness to be crossed. Time was a series of jagged rocks to be counted. Time was a million stars.

Time fled by.

Forbes called another halt. They stopped beside a long cleft in the Moon's surface, a fissure fully twenty feet long and three feet wide. The large crack was filled with darkness, almost like a long black finger against the gray background.

Forbes squatted on the edge of the cleft, peering down its smooth sides. Ted leaned against a rock, his oxygen cylinder resting against the ragged surface.

"Something down there," Forbes said softly, almost to himself.

Ted didn't answer. He closed his eyes against the stars, breathing deeply of the oxygen that flowed into his helmet.

"There's something down there, Baker!"

There was an undercurrent of excitement in Forbes's voice that caused Ted's eyes to pop open quickly.

"What?"

"On the bottom of this fissure. Something . . . something . . . green."

Ted scrambled to his feet and walked rapidly to the edge of the cleft. Forbes was already stretched out on the ground, stomach down, his hands clinging to the cleft as he stared into its murky depth.

"Are you sure?" Ted asked.

Tm going down there," Forbes replied.

"Wait a second! You don't even know how deep

.. . n

it is.

"I can see the bottom, and there's something green covering it. I think it's life, Baker." Xife?"

"Life, life!" Forbes uncoiled a spool of wire from his belt. He attached one end to a loop in the belt and swung the other end around a sharply jutting rock near the edge of the cleft. "Hold this end, Baker. I'm going down."

Ted pushed the wire through a ring in his own belt as Forbes dropped his legs into the yawning chasm. He clung to the lip with gloved hands as he studied the sides of the cleft for another foothold. He moved his hands then and began moving deeper into the fissure. The blackness swallowed him up instantly.

Ted paid out the wire, watching the top of Forbes's helmet.

"Bottom," Forbes called. There was a moment of silence, and then Forbes shouted, "Frost, Baker! There's frost down here."

Ted felt his heart lurch against his ribs. "That means water."

"I've found something, Baker. By jumping Jehosha-phat, this is really something!"

"What is it?" Ted swallowed hard, waiting.

Tm coming up. Give me room. I'm going to try a jump."

Ted backed away, his eyes glued to the fissure. He could hear Forbes's frantic breathing over the radio, could sense the lieutenant's excitement like an electric shock that ran between them. Forbes suddenly sailed out of the cleft, dropping to the ground several feet in front of Ted. He fell to his hands and knees, then quickly rose.

"Look! Take a look at this!"

He opened his glove, and a bright spot of green appeared against the palm of his hand.

It was small, its leaves pulled in tightly around it. It was dark green—although the color may have seemed darker because of Ted's face plate—and it seemed to be curled up into a tight ball as protection against the cold. The roots were torn where Forbes had ripped it from the rocks. But it was unmistakably green, unmistakably alive!

"A plant," Ted murmured.

He lifted his head, and for an instant—despite the darkened face plates—he thought he detected a spark of rapport in Forbes's eyes.

"Life," Forbes said, his voice hushed in awe. "Life, Baker. Life on the Moon. Life."

"In spite of the extreme heat and cold," Ted said. "Life."

"It was under a jutting ledge," Forbes said, "growing close to the wall. Probably not enough sun reaches it to burn it out, and there's just enough water to

He was staring at the spot of green on Forbes's open hand, sharing in the thrill of discovery. He looked at the plant, and everything was suddenly all right. The trip was worth it, the hardship, everything. He no longer had any regrets, and he was ready to throw his arms around Forbes and do an impromptu dance when he noticed the pumice around them exploding in furious little spurts of dust.

There was still no sound. But the ground was erupting all around them, as if the Moon were bursting a hundred little blisters at the same time.

Forbes stopped dead in his tracks, his palm still outstretched, the dash of green against the gray glove looking somehow pathetic.

When his voice came over the suit radio, it was edged with panic. "Meteors!" he shouted.

They both turned instantly, pulling up abruptly as they confronted the lip of the cleft. Forbes struggled to keep his balance, almost tumbling into the black slit as the speeding pellets dropped around them like hailstones.

It was something out of a nightmare, Ted felt. The land of a nightmare where someone is shooting at you, but the gun is making no sound, is showing no flash of fire. The pea-sized meteors spilled around them like ball bearings gone berserk, but there was none of the feeling of danger. It was a danger implied, a danger born of knowledge.

They ran, but not because their senses were screaming and not because the meteors were frightening in themselves. There is nothing frightening about silence.

They ran because they knew that any one of those speeding pellets could rip through the fabric of their suits with lightning velocity. They ran because they knew that those meteors could kill as unerringly as a bullet.

The pumice continued to erupt into dull gray blossoms that noiselessly opened on the ground. Each eruption meant another spent meteor, another dangerous projectile that had missed the larger mark of the space-suited figures.

Ted fell flat on his face, rolling over instantly to the protection of an overhanging ledge. "Forbes!" he shouted. "This way!"

Forbes turned his helmeted head, located Ted and started running for the ledge.

His shriek split the silent night like the hoarse cry of a ghoul. He fell instantly, rolling over in a cloud of dust. The meteors plowed up the ground around him, biting at the dust like a swarm of angry hornets.

"Baker," he bellowed. "Baker, for the love of . . ."

Ted leaped to his feet instantly, leaving the cover of the ledge and stepping into the deadly shower. He dropped down beside Forbes, wrapping his gloved hands around the fallen man's ankles. Without hesitation, without looking down at the erupting pumice, he started to pull.

The shower was over before he reached the protection of the ledge.

Nothing had changed. The ground looked exactly the same. Nothing had disturbed the silence except the terrible yell that had wrenched itself from Forbes's lips.

"Are you hit?" Ted asked.

"My . . . my . . . foot." There was pain in Forbes's voice. Then, with sudden awareness, he cried, "The cold, Baker. It's . . .

- Frantically, Ted lifted Forbes's right leg, examining the suit. He dropped the leg instandy and turned his scrutiny to the other leg. He found a hole no larger than a dime near Forbes's left foot. He reached into his pouch quickly, pulling out a rubber patch. He fumbled with the back of the patch, Forbes writhing on the ground, oxygen and heat escaping through the hole in his suit. Quickly, Ted seized a pliers from his belt. He ripped a screw driver from its loop and pushed the patch against a rock with the flat blade as he pulled at the back with the pliers. The back ripped off under ;Ted's pressure. Quickly he slapped the sticky side of the patch onto the hole in Forbes's suit.

"You re too late," Forbes said. "My foot... I can't feel anything any more."

Ted bent down and studied the patch. It seemed to be securely in place, and he watched the trouser leg as it filled with oxygen. Forbes had been lucky, no matter what the damage to his foot. If there had been a hole big enough to cause an appreciable loss of pressure . . .

"Do you feel all right?" Ted asked.

"I'm all right."

"Are you sure?"

"I think so. I just can't feel anything in my left foot, that's all."

"The cold. I wouldn't be surprised if it were frostbitten."

"Yeah." Forbes hesitated and then said, "Baker, thanks for pulling me out of there. I . . ."

"The shower was over anyway," Ted said. "Sure," Forbes said. "Sure." "Can you walk?"

Forbes propped himself up with his elbows and tried to get to his feet. He let out a small, sharp cry, and then sank back to the pumice. "I don't think so."

Ted didn't answer. He glanced up at the luminous chrono inside his helmet. 1534! Where had the time gone? Had they really covered so many miles? He was suddenly mindful of the oxygen pouring into his helmet. They'd have to get started if they wanted their supply to last them.

"I think we'd better get moving," he said.

"Go ahead," Forbes replied.

"Huh?" Get going.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean shove! I'm staying here."

;;whati"

"We've wasted enough time already, Baker. Get moving. That's an order." Ted didn't answer. "You hear me, Baker?" "I heard you."

"Then what are you standing there like a totem pole for? Take the sled and beat it. Leave me a few cylinders of oxygen and beat it."

"I'm not going anywhere without you," Ted said evenly.

"Look, Baker . . .*

"Look, Forbes, let's cut it out," Ted said, surprised to hear his own voice. "No matter what you think of me, I'm not leaving you here to freeze to death."

"I won't freeze. You can pick me up on the way back."

"If I can find you."

"You'll find me. The Moon is a small place," Forbes said.

"I'd rather not take the chance." Ted reached down and wrapped one arm around Forbes's back, tossing his arm over his own shoulder. He hooked the other arm under the man's knees. He lifted him effortlessly, the light gravity in his favor.

"Put me down," Forbes protested.

"Sure," Ted said. "On the sled."

"Are you crazy, Baker? You can't tow the oxygen and me I"

"T i '*

i can try.

"Put me down! Put me down this minute! That's an order, Baker." He began to kick as Ted moved toward the sled. "Put me . . ." His voice trailed off into an almost inarticulate yelp of pain.

"Go easy with that foot," Ted warned.

Forbes fell silent as Ted walked the rest of the distance to the sled. Ted lowered the lieutenant onto the oxygen cylinders, and Forbes sat up, his gloved hands gripping the tanks.

"This won't work, Baker. You're killing our chances of getting there. It'll take longer than we planned, and our oxygen will give out."

"We'll have to chance that, sir," Ted said.

"This is no time for heroics, Baker. Get me off this sled."

"That's exactly it, sir. We haven't got any time for heroics. So the sooner you shut up, the sooner we'll get started."

Ted turned his back on the lieutenant and picked up the tow line. He looped it over his shoulders and under his armpits.

He started to pull.

The miles went by more slowly now. It had been easier with two men pulling a lighter load. The load had Forbes's weight added to it now, and Ted was pulling it alone.

Anxiously, he kept glancing at the chrono. Time, unlike distance, seemed to speed along too quickly.

He stopped often, drinking more chocolate than he should have, trying to give himself more of the precious energy he needed. It wasn't until they had traveled for three hours that he remembered the plant.

"Forbes," he said suddenly, "the plant!"

"I've got it," Forbes said softly. "Right here in my pouch-pocket. It'll probably die before we get back, but I've got it."

"If it didn't die out here on the Moon," Ted said, "it won't die in your pouch."

Forbes didn't answer. He sat atop the oxygen cylinders like a strange Buddha with a metal head.

"How's your foot?" Ted asked.

Forbes shrugged.

"What does that mean?"

"Maybe I should put it in my pouch, too," Forbes said, the faintest trace of humor in his voice.

"Might not be a bad idea," Ted said. He grinned, and then began moving the sled again.

Forbes was silent for a long time. The only sound Ted heard was his own breathing inside his helmet. He paused once to raise his temperature control, then started moving again. The Moon seemed endless, and Ted wondered if there really was such a place as Mare Imbrium. Maybe it was all an illusion, a grim trick somebody was playing. Maybe all the Moon was just a repetition of one little segment of the Moon. A Moon full of Maria Crisium. From one Mare Crisium to the next, over and over again. It certainly looked that way.

He had the strange feeling that he had gone over this very ground before. Each crater looked just like the next one. Each sharp rock could have been a twin to the one just passed. The stars overhead looked the same. He kept wishing he'd pass a high outcropping and find a hot-dog stand.

"How would you like a hot dog?" he asked Forbes.

Forbes hesitated, as if he were unsure whether or not he should answer. Finally, he said, "Have you got an extra one?"

"Or a steak," Ted suggested.

"With French-fried onions and mushrooms and thick sauce, and browned potatoes."

"Oh, please," Ted implored. "Please . . ."

"You started it," Forbes said, shrugging again.

"Yeah, but I didn't know I had a chef along with >»

me.

"Have a swig of chocolate," Forbes suggested calmly. "It'll clear your head."

It wasn't until that moment that Ted realized something had happened between him and Forbes. He supposed it was a combination of things, but whatever it was, he was thankful. The discovery of the plant had probably been the initial factor. And the meteor shower had helped. And now, whereas Ted couldn't in truthfulness say he and Forbes were enjoying a blazing friendship, he could say that things had improved tremendously. They were at least talking to each other like human beings—and that could mean much when there were only two human beings as far as the eye could see.

They kept moving, talking occasionally, keeping silent mostly. At 1930 on the button, they ditched their old oxygen cylinders, took two new ones from the sled, and strapped these to their backs. Ted started pulling again, the sled a trifle lighter now. The supply dump seemed a long way off.

When it was morning by their helmet chronos, they decided to stop for a long rest.

"You've been on the go for close to twenty-four hours," Forbes said. "We're stopping to sleep, whether you like it or not."

"We'll use oxygen while we sleep," Ted said, "and we won't be making any mileage."

"If we collapse, we won't make any mileage anyway," Forbes countered.

"All right," Ted said. "We'll go until 0730. We'll change our oxygen cylinders then, and then take a short nap."

"A long nap."

"A short nap."

"We'll sleep until we wake up," Forbes said. "I'm a light sleeper," Ted told him.

They slept from 0735 to 1349. Ted stirred restlessly and opened his eyes. It was dark, and for a moment he didn't know where he was. He turned his head, and one of the rubber tubes slithered across his face. He leaped to his feet, ready to do battle with his unseen foe—and then remembering where he was, he let out a deep breath.

He turned to see Forbes sitting on the pile of cylinders, ready to go.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked.

"Got up just this minute," Forbes said.

"Yeah, I'll bet."

"Have your breakfast, and let's go."

Ted moved his head until he found one of the rubber tubes. He sucked on it, and the vitamin concentrate poured into his mouth, strong with the taste of oil. Quickly, he shifted his head and washed the taste down with a swallow of hot chocolate.

"All right," he said, "I've eaten."

"Before we start," Forbes suggested, "I think we'd better check our map." He reached into his pouch and unfolded the map. Ted walked over to the sled, squatting down beside Forbes.

Forbes laid a finger on the thick paper. "I figure we're here," he said.

Ted studied the area Forbes indicated. "You mean we're just entering Mare Serenitatis?"

"That's right."

"But that means we're behind schedule. We should be in the middle of Mare . . ."

"I know. But we're just entering it. I think we are, anyway. Notice how much darker the pumice is just ahead of us. I figure that's the beginning of the mare."

"We shouldn't have stopped to sleep."

"We had to sleep, Baker. We're not supermen."

"All right, but . . ."

"What are you worried about?" Ted hesitated. "Our oxygen." "Why?"

"We're behind schedule. I don't think we'll have enough to get us there." "We'll have enough." "How do you figure?"

"Simple. We were supposed to travel 300 miles a day, right?" ^Right."

"Okay. It would take us three and one-third days to travel a thousand miles."

"That's right. But we're not doing 300 miles a day."

"Forget that for a minute. Just remember that it's supposed to take us three and one-third days. Okay?"

Ted shrugged. "Okay, okay."

"One cylinder of oxygen carries a twelve-hour supply. That means we'd need two cylinders apiece for each day. For three days we'd need six cylinders."

"Right."

"For the extra third of a day, we'd need less than a full cylinder. A third of a day is eight hours, and a cylinder will last for twelve hours."

"I still don't see . . ." Ted started.

"We had fourteen cylinders on the sled when we started," Forbes said. "Plus a cylinder on each of our backs. That's sixteen cylinders."

"Eight cylinders apiece," Ted said.

"Right. Or, in other words, enough for four full days of traveling."

"But we're still behind schedule."

"Not that far behind schedule, though. We've got a leeway of about sixteen hours, don't you see? If it takes us four full days instead of the three and a third we figured on, we'll still make it."

Ted considered this for a moment. "And suppose it takes us more than four days?"

"It can't," Forbes said. "I figure we're about eight hours behind schedule now. If we hurry . . ."

"I don't like it," Ted said. "I feel uneasy."

"Look, stop worrying. When we strap on our last cylinder of oxygen, we'll have a twelve-hour supply left. By that time, we shouldn't be more than two or three hours from the supply dump."

"I hope you're right," Ted said.

"Mark my words," Forbes reassured him. "When we strap on those last cylinders, we won't have more than a few hours of traveling ahead of us."

"I hope so," Ted repeated.

Forbes folded the map while Ted picked up the tow strap and put it on like a harness. Without another word, they started off again. Ted's eyes never left the chrono. He counted the minutes like an executioner waiting to pull the switch. Another day passed, and they kept traveling, Ted racing against the hands of the chrono.

On the morning of the fourth day, they strapped onto their backs the last two cylinders of oxygen on the sled. Forbes allowed Ted to help him with his cylinder. He stood by while Ted strapped on his own.

When they had finished, each man bore enough oxygen on his back to last him for another twelve hours.

By their best reckoning, they were still fifteen hours away from the supply dump.

now, seemed heavier, in spite of its comparative lightness.

Ted nearly gave up when the sled snagged itself on a tall rock. He struggled with it tenaciously, like a man struggling with a weed that's threatening to snuff out the other plants in his garden. When he finally loosened the sled, they had lost ten precious minutes. The clock seemed to mock Ted openly, sitting against the metal helmet with smug superiority.

They kept moving, the pace a fast one now. Ted practically ran, tempted to leave the sled and its bulky awkwardness, tempted to leap through the air in space-devouring jumps that would bring him to the supplies. He thought of Forbes then, a foot that was probably frozen solid in the boot of his suit, a cylinder of oxygen that would last twelve hours on his back. No, he couldn't take to the air. He had to stick to the ground and the sled, and somehow make up for lost time. They didn't consult the map again. They knew where they were, and checking on it would only waste more time. The high peaks of the Haemus Mountains stretched off on Ted's left, and on his right he could see the jagged heights of the Caucasus Mountains. That meant that Archimedes was dead ahead. And three miles beyond that was the supply dump.

Dead ahead.

But, oh, so far ahead. So very far ahead.

There was nothing to do but keep going.

The Moon did its best to hinder their passage. It erected its best obstacle course, and then sat back to watch the struggling humans. The best obstacle was the razor-sharp rock. The Moon had plenty of these, situated strategically. Jagged, coarse, jutting out of the surface like stained dragons' teeth, waiting to bite and tear. The pumice was good too. It was thick and it clung and pulled and hung. The Moon did its very best, enjoying the spectacle immensely. The people back on Earth looked up and smiled. The Moon was a thin crescent against the blackness, hanging there like a lopsided, grinning mouth.

Time was running out. Ted knew it, and he dreaded it. He hadn't turned back to look at Forbes since they'd strapped on the new cylinders and started their race. He felt like a victim being led to the execution chamber, with a big-faced clock ticking off the seconds to his death. Ted's clock didn't tick, and that made it worse. It didn't have to tick. He wanted to reach up and smash its glowing face, but the clock was inside his helmet and he couldn't reach it without opening his face plate. And if he did that, he'd suffocate. He smiled grimly. The way things were going, he'd probably suffocate anyway. Was it pleasant to die by asphyxiation? Ted wondered about it. He tried to center his anger on the chronometer, knowing that anger at the Moon would do him no good, knowing that anger at the dagger-like rocks and deep pumice would only cause carelessness. The chrono was a good scapegoat, and he blamed all their ills on it. Doggedly, he pushed on, licking his lips anxiously.

The Moon, dissatisfied with the ineffectualness of its obstacle course, dug into its bag of tricks and pulled out another weapon. The weapon had been there all the time, of course, but the Moon began <using it in earnest now. It sat back to watch the effects.

"My face plate is frosting up," Ted said suddenly.

"What?"

These were the first words spoken since the race had started. They sounded strange, the way a shout would in a quiet church.

"My face plate. It's covered with ice."

"Give it a blast of hot air," Forbes said. "The lever is outside on your ..."

"I know where the lever is," Ted snapped. "Something's wrong. No air is coming through the tubes."

"Try it again, Baker."

"Why? It's not working, I tell you."

"Take it easy, Ted."

Ted stopped short in the middle of a word. Forbes had called him "Ted." He tried to calm himself. The frost was closing in on his helmet, thick ice forming on the edges, where plexiglass joined metal. It shot long white lances across the transparent surface, spearing its way toward the center of the face plate, leaving a circle of clearness in the center.

Frantically, Ted rubbed at the outside of the face plate with his gloved hand.

"It's no use," he said. "Something's blocking the tube."

"Is it bad?" Forbes said.

"I'm looking through a spot the size of a quarter. That'll probably be covered in a few minutes."

The Moon wasted no time. It summoned all its strength and concentrated on the remaining clear area in the center of the face plate. The ice moved rapidly, covering the plexiglass, completely blanking out all vision. In thirty seconds, Ted could see nothing hut the inside of his helmet.

"I can't see," he said. He stopped abruptly, aware of the luminous hands of the chrono staring back at him. "What are we going to do, Forbes?"

"What's blocking that duct?"

"I don't know."

"Well find out, hang it!" Forbes's voice was sharp.

Ted stared down the length of his nose, trying to locate the source of trouble. The rubber tubes from the chocolate and vitamin cylinders twisted around the sides of the helmet in a twining maze. Ted's eyes opened wide as he saw what had blocked the hot-air duct.

"It's one of the tubes," he shouted. "It's hanging right over the opening of the duct." "Can you reach it?" "I don't know." "Try."

Ted reached out with his chin, snapping at the trouble-making tube with his teeth. The tube dangled enticingly several inches from his mouth. He stuck out his tongue, tried to wrap it around the tube, succeeded only in feeling the cold blast of ice that covered the face plate.

"I can't do it," he said.

"All right, forget it. We're wasting time. Follow the strap back to the sled. I'll take your hand when you get here."

Ted turned and wiggled out of the strap. He grabbed it firmly in his hands and followed it hand over hand back to the sled. He groped like a blind man, the sheet of ice before his face as formidable as blinkers.

He felt Forbes's hand close over his. He waited.

"I'll lead you around to the back of the sled. You'll have to push from now on. I'll call directions." "All right."

Forbes swung his arm around, and Ted followed it to the back of the sled. He groped around clumsily, finally found the runners and gripped them tightly.

"I'm ready," he said.

"We've got clear sailing for about fifty yards. We turn right then to avoid a high rock. I'll let you know just when. Let's go, boy."

Ted began pushing, bent over double, his arms and shoulders bearing down against the runners. It was a change, that much he could say. His muscles ached from pulling, and now they were pushing. He felt terribly confined within his helmet. A wall of white met his eyes whenever he glanced up. And he knew that each time he exhaled, moisture was being added to that wall, moisture that froze instantly. He kept pushing.

"A little to the right," Forbes called. "That's it. Now to your left, just a trifle. That's the boy. Straight ahead. Fine. Fine."

The calling went on as the figures fought their way against the night. A crippled man directing a boy with a blanked-out face plate. The halt leading the blind. The Moon no longer found it funny.

The calls stopped suddenly.

Ted jerked the sled to a halt and looked up. "Forbes?" No answer. "Forbes?"

"Straight. . . ahead," the voice came. It was feeble, weak.

Panic clutched at Ted's heart. "Forbes!" he shouted. "Are you all right?"

"Straight ahead." The voice was weaker this time.

"Forbes!" Ted sprang erect and groped his way around the side of the sled. He fell to his knees, clambered to his feet again. He tripped over a sharp rock and fell flat on his stomach, rolling away from the sled. He sat up then and stared around. Tentatively, he reached out with his hands, feeling for the sled. He leaned forward.

Where was the sled? Where had it gone?

He got to his knees, his tongue swollen in his mouth, the taste of dead ashes in his throat. He pawed the ground, pulling his gloved hand back when it contacted a sharp rock.

He was bathed in sweat now, a prisoner within the space suit, a blind man groping for a sled on the face of the Moon. Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet.

He stood stockstill, seeing no farther than the white sheet of ice four inches from his nose.

"Forbes?"

Nothing broke the stillness. Nothing but the sound of his own heart hammering against his ears.

"Dan! Dan, where are you?"

He stretched out his foot, feeling the ground gently. Carefully, he put it down, his arms outstretched. He lifted his other foot, placed that down. He took a third step.

"Dan? Dan, please, where are you?"

He lifted his foot and was about to put it down when the ground disappeared beneath it. He pitched forward slowly, like a balloon falling on the wind. He was rolling over then, and the tubes slithered over his face like a nest of snakes disturbed. He kept rolling, head over heels, down, down, seeing nothing, feeling only the sharp prods of rocks as they scraped against his suit.

Finally he stopped. He was lying flat on his back and the tubes were trailing over his face. He took a deep breath, despair flooding his senses. They'd never make it now, never. All this time wasted. He shook his head, surprised when his chin bumped against one of the tubes.

The tubes!

The fall had rearranged them, tearing some loose from their moorings. He tried to locate the troublesome tube that was blocking the hot-air duct.

He found it, and his heart skipped an anxious beat. It was hanging several inches from his mouth. He wet his lips and then stuck out his tongue. The tip of his tongue nudged the tube, filling his mouth with a rubbery taste. He craned his neck forward and suddenly closed his mouth around the tube. Elation filled him as he yanked back his head. The tube was firmly stuck to the duct.

A new thought sent terror racing through his brain. Suppose the duct had frozen over. Suppose . . .

Viciously, he yanked at the tube again.

It came free this time, almost pulling the cylinder from the wall of the helmet. Quickly he fumbled with the lever on the breastplate outside his suit. He heard a rush of air into his helmet, felt the blast of warmth as it reached curling fingers for his face.

He watched the heat attack the ice slowly. Impatiently, he turned up the lever to full, watching the ice turn shiny and wet, watching it finally dissolve into big chunks that slithered down the plexiglass and fell against his chest.

He could see a little now. The heat kept steaming up against the ice, boring a path through the whiteness. The face plate was getting clearer. He could make out a few rocks now. And suddenly the remaining ice seemed to crumble completely, like the ice around the freezing unit of a refrigerator when the box is being defrosted. It fell onto his chest and slithered down the length of his body. The face plate was completely clear now.

He saw the sled first, and he ran to it, shaking Forbes.

"Dan, Dan," he cried.

"Straight ahead," Forbes mumbled.

Ted stole a quick glance at the chrono. They had been traveling for almost twelve hours, the last few hours in total blindness. He tore his eyes from the luminous dial and looked out through the face plate.

He blinked his eyes, refusing to believe what he saw.

Archimedes!

No, no, it couldn't be!

But it was, it was! Archimedes 1 He'd have recognized the crater anywhere. That meant... that meant the supplies! The supplies were only three miles away. Three miles—why he could make that in a matter of minutes. He didn't bother with the strap this time. He picked up Forbes, getting a firm grip beneath his knees and his shoulders.

He began leaping across the face of the Moon, a weird bullfrog hopping across the night.

The supply rockets sprawled across the pumice like scattered bowling pins. Plaster of Paris dotted the pumice with white brilliance, a marker for the Moon explorers. There were four rockets all told, and Ted raced for the nearest one, prying open the hatch and rummaging inside for the oxygen cylinders he needed so badly. He could hear Forbes's breath rasping into the suit radio, harsh and uneven. He imagined there was very little air left in Forbes's suit, and he could begin to feel the strain of breathing the thin oxygen in his own helmet. When he found the stack of cylinders, he almost screamed in glee. He strapped one onto Forbes's back immediately, adjusted the flow to full, shooting a fast stream into the weakening lieutenant's helmet.

He put a container onto his own back, and shot a sweet, steady stream into his helmet. He sat back against the bulkhead of the supply rocket, a long sigh escaping his lungs.

After a while he adjusted the flow of Forbes's oxygen to normal.

Tremulously, he called, "Dan? Dan?"

There was a long time before any answer came. When it did come, it was low and weak.

"Ted?" A pause, and then, "We made it, didn't we?"

using his arms to guide the wire as the tractor came over the lip of the hatch.

"I may not be able to use my leg," he said, "but there's nothing wrong with my arms and shoulders."

The tractor was powered by a turbine using rocket fuel, an air-breathing engine being worthless on the atmosphere-less Moon. They loaded enough oxygen onto the vehicle for the return trip, giving themselves more than enough in case of delay, and then they moved over to the large red rocket bearing the fuel they would need for the ship back in Mare Crisium.

Forbes felt better behind the wheel of the tractor. He managed to drive it expertly, using one foot which he shifted constantly on the floorboards.

They set to work loading their fuel. The fuel was packaged in large tanks. Whoever had designed the tanks had apparently been farsighted, though; a fact for which Ted raised a silent prayer. The tanks were not bulky. They could be carried fairly easily, the object being to make transportation simple on the Moon. They were designed to be emptied into the larger tanks of the rocket ship, each separate tank being equipped with its own fueling hose.

Forbes backed the tractor against the loading port of the red supply rocket, and they started the unloading process at once.

"There will be no smoking in the fueling area," Forbes cracked.

"Repeat," Ted said, as he swung one of the tanks onto the tractor, using the rocket's boom and loading net. "There will be no smoking in the fueling area."

"And no fooling while fueling," Forbes said.

"Roger."

It took them longer than they figured. Forbes estimated the number of gallons they'd need, down to the last pint. He was thoroughly familiar with the Moon ship's potential, and he knew just how much fuel she'd need to blast free of the Moon's surface, swing into an orbit, and then come down by braking.

For a while they thought the tractor would not be large enough to carry all they'd need. The tanks seemed to take up so much room. Ted sighed in relief when Forbes announced one more tank would do the trick. They lowered the tank into place and then began lashing everything down.

When they had finished, they surveyed the supply dump with careful eyes, wondering if they'd forgotten anything.

Oxygen. Fuel. Food? No, they'd be back soon, if everything went as planned. Water, ditto.

"I guess we've got everything," Ted said.

"Yep. Let's get started."

Ted hopped into the tractor, and Forbes started it, backing away from the rockets. They had gone several hundred feet from the dump when Ted shouted, "Our batteries!"

"Holy jumping . . ."

Forbes swung the tractor around without hesitation. He drove up to the bright yellow rocket, the one bearing the food.

"There should be an air lock on this one," Forbes said.

"How do you figure?"

"Simple. A man sometimes has to taste food to see if it's gone bad. You can't taste food when you're wearing a helmet. Therefore, an air lock. Listen, we engineers think of everything."

Forbes turned out to be right, though Ted doubted if his reasoning were exactly accurate. Nonetheless, there was an air lock, and when Ted had taken two batteries from the green rocket, he carried Forbes piggy-back into the lock, and they waited for the blinking light to flash.

The first thing they did when the pressure had equalized was remove their helmets.

"Brother, that feels good," Forbes said. Ted put him down and helped him out of his suit. Then he took his own off.

He quickly put the batteries in place inside the suits, and they began dressing once more. Before they left the rocket, they stuffed their mouths with grapes which they found in one of the refrigerator lockers. Then they clamped on their helmets and went down to the tractor.

If they hurried, they would make it. This time it would be a race against the Sun.

It was slow going.

The tractor was loaded, and the fuel tanks were heavy. Forbes drove carefully, anxious to avoid any accidents. They talked very little.

It was funny, Ted thought, but the Moon seemed to discourage conversation. Everything was so quiet that it made you want to keep quiet too. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. And when on Lunar . . .

Ted left the thought unfinished. There were no Lunans, or Lunarians, or whatever you wanted to call them. Except the plant Forbes had found. Wouldn't Dr. Gehardt be excited? Life on the Moon! Not intelligent life, certainly, but life at any rate. The scientists had pretty much agreed that the Moon was a dead world. What would they say when the first expedition brought back evidence of life?

Ted realized abruptly that his thinking had changed somewhat. His mind had automatically accepted the new premise that they would get back to Earth. A few days ago—even a few hours ago—he wasn't quite sure of that. There was no question in his mind now. They would get back to Earth, and there would be future Lunar rockets. And then the planets. Mars first, perhaps. And Venus. His blood quickened in anticipation. He was happy, very happy.

They kept traveling as fast as they could. The tractor was built for the Moon and it navigated the deep ruts and holes with easy skill. But even their top speed was low because of the weight the tractor was carrying. Ted resigned himself to a long trip, sure they would reach the ship before the Sun did, but wishing nonetheless that it were all over.

He was surprised when Forbes spoke after many silent miles.

"I can't figure you, Baker."

"Huh?" Ted turned his head.

"I said I can't figure you."

"Oh? Why not. What's there to figure?"

Forbes shrugged. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the surface ahead. "You're something of a paradox."

"Not really," Ted said.

"Yes, yes, I think so," Forbes replied.

Ted didn't answer. He had begun to have hopes for a friendship with the lieutenant. At least, Forbes's attitude seemed to have changed. But now—even though Forbes's voice was friendly, he felt he knew where the conversation was leading, and a sense of foreboding filled him.

"Why'd you do it?" Forbes asked suddenly.

"Why'd I do what?" Ted knew what Forbes meant, but for some reason he wanted to put off the discussion as long as he could.

"You know what I mean," Forbes said.

Ted shrugged. "Why talk about it?"

"Because I'm curious, and because I won't rest well until I find out what makes you tick. At first, I thought you were just a glory-happy kid without any sense. That was before we started this little jaunt. Now I'm not sure any more."

Ted hesitated, taking a deep breath. "Suppose I told you you've got me all wrong?"

"I'm listening," Forbes said simply.

"Suppose I used the classic, 'I'm innocent'!"

"I'm still listening."

"All right, I'm innocent."

"You haven't told me anything yet," Forbes said. Ted sighed again. "It's a long story." "We've got plenty of time, my friend." "Okay." Ted paused, then said, "This is what happened."

He told Forbes the whole story while the tractor made its slow way toward the waiting rocket ship. Forbes nodded from time to time, listening intently. Ted told him all about Jack's injured collarbone, about the fight in the air lock, about how he wanted to stop blastoff. He told him everything, and when he was finished, Forbes sat silently for a long time.

"And this is the truth?" he asked at last.

"Yes," Ted said.

"Why didn't you tell it before?"

"You wouldn't let me. When I first boarded the ship, everyone was all excited about blastoff. Then you voted on me before I had a chance to clear myself. It all happened so fast, I . . ."

"You should have given me a swift kick in the pants," Forbes interrupted.

"It wasn't your fault," Ted said.

"It certainly was," Forbes insisted. "That day in the mess hall! Why, you weren't planning on stowing away at all. You were just asking my advice on what you should do about Jack. How could I have been so stupid?"

"It wasn't your fault," Ted repeated.

"T ■ ■ 1»

I say it was!

"But it wasn't. Can't you see . . . ?" It was my . . .

Forbes suddenly cut himself short and began laughing. Ted realized he was laughing over the near-argument they'd had in apologizing to each other. He began chuckling, too, and before long they were both howling their glee to the indifferent Moon, two figures with their heads tilted back, their voices raised in laughter.

They talked a great deal after that.

Forbes told Ted all about his home town and the way he'd wanted to be a space engineer ever since he'd been a kid. His only regret had been that he hadn't gone through the Academy. He had enlisted in the Air Force as a mechanic instead, pulling himself up to the lieutenant's rank by his bootstraps.

As Forbes talked about the Academy, Ted's mind flew to the Space Station. He thought of General Pepper, and of what the general had said, and he grew suddenly silent.

"What's the matter, Ted?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Come on, what is it?"

"Really, Dan, it's nothing. I was just thinking about the . . . about the Moon, that's what. Yes, I was thinking how the cold the . . ."

"You're a lousy liar, Ted."

"No, really, I was just . . ."

"You're thinking of what the Old Man said, aren't you?" ;'No."

"I can tell, Ted. You're worried about it."

"All right, I am. General Pepper said I'd be in hot water. I'll probably get tossed out of the Academy."

"Don't be ridiculous. If anyone gets tossed out, it'll be Jack Talbot."

"Well, I wouldn't want that to happen, either. Jack is specializing now. In a year he'll have his commission."

Forbes shook his head. "Boy, it's funny how wrong I had you figured, Ted. I hope you'll accept my apologies."

Ted grinned. "Let's not get into that again."

"Well, look, don't worry about the Old Man. Ill explain everything that happened. When he hears the true story . .

Forbes stopped speaking and pulled the wheel all the way over to his right.

"What's the matter?" Ted asked, his brows pulling together.

"I don't know," Forbes said slowly. "She seems to be pulling to the left." "Maybe we hit a bump." "No, she's still doing it."

They drove on in silence, Forbes trying to keep the tractor on a steady course as the wheel kept pulling to the left. He threw all his weight to the right, moving his gloved hands over the wheel, trying to maintain control.

There was a sudden jolt, and the wheel went lax in his hands. He turned it, and the tractor kept bearing straight ahead, not responding at all to the controls. Quickly, Forbes reached out and cut the engine.

"Something snapped—that's for sure," he said.

Ted hopped out of the open cab and dropped to the ground. "What do you suppose it is?" he asked.

"I don't know. Can you help me down?"

"Sure." Ted reached up for Forbes, gathering him into his arms and swinging him out of the cab of the tractor. He put him down, and Forbes stood on one foot, his injured foot raised, holding to Ted's shoulder for support.

"I'll have to go underneath it," Forbes said.

He hopped closer to the tractor, caught at the metal door for support. He dropped to his knees then and stuck his head under the body of the vehicle. He sprawled out flat on his back, his legs sticking out like an open pair of scissors.

"Don't foul your oxygen lines," Ted warned.

I wont.

Forbes was silent for a moment as he studied the underside of the machine. "Sure complicated," he said.

"Do you see what's wrong?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'm trying to figure this mess out. I've never seen so many wires in my life."

"We'd better hurry," Ted said. "The Sun . . ."

"It's beginning to make a little sense now," Forbes said. "Just give me a few minutes."

Ted waited impatiently, thinking of the Sun and thinking of what would happen if they were caught outside when the Sun rose.

"Well, for crying out loud," Forbes said.

"What is it?"

"A nut the size of a quarter. Must have got loose with all this jostling. This'll be a snap to fix."

Ted breathed a sigh of relief. "Good."

"There should be some tools up in the cab. Want to bring me some wrenches?"

"Sure." Ted climbed up into the cab and rummaged around until he found a bundle of wrenches wrapped in a canvas packet. He leaped to the ground and stooped down near Forbes's legs.

"Here they are," he said.

"You'd better bring them to me," Forbes replied. "I don't want to lose sight of this nut. So darned many of them under here."

Ted crawled under the tractor, crouching low to make sure his oxygen tank cleared the wires and jutting bolts. He lay down beside Forbes and handed the lieutenant the packet of wrenches.

"Thanks." Forbes pulled the ties on the canvas and unrolled the packet. Ted stared up at the complicated arrangement of wires, rods, nuts, bolts, pipes.

Finally, Forbes held up a wrench. "This one should do it." He reached up and applied the wrench to the nut. "Nope, too small."

He began rummaging around among the wrenches again.

"Are you sure you can fix it?" Ted asked.

"Why, sure. Just have to tighten that nut, that's all. Here, this one looks like the right size."

He reached out with the wrench, capturing the nut in its open jaws. "Yep, that does it."

Ted watched as Forbes pulled back on the wrench, his arms working toward his body.

Forbes grunted and said, "Seems to be stuck."

"Are you sure that's the right wrench?"

"Yes, it's just the nut. Seems to be on the threads lopsided. It'll need a little pressure, that's all."

"We'd better hurry," Ted said again.

Forbes wiggled around on the ground, getting himself in position. "There. Now one good pull and we should loosen it. After that, it'll be smooth sailing."

Forbes reached out for the nut again, gripping it with the head of the wrench. He made sure the nut was gripped firmly, and then he yanked his arms back.

Like a fragile matchstick in the hands of a weight lifter, the wrench suddenly snapped in two!

"Too big or too small. This was the only one that was just right."

Ted allowed the information to penetrate. "Wh-what are we going to do?"

"That's a problem, all right."

"We can't just sit here."

"No. No, we can't."

They stared up at the nut, helpless in the clutches of its stubbornness.

"Are there any more wrenches up there?" Forbes asked.

"No. Only this packet. There was a hammer. Maybe we could jar the nut loose."

"I'd be afraid to. You saw what happened to the wrench. Suppose we knocked off the nut and bolt?"

"Well, what can we do?"

Forbes thought for a few minutes, and then said, "There was something my dad used to say when I was a kid."

Ted glanced at Forbes quickly. "Really, Dan, this is no time for . . ."

"I was pretty young, and I used to pick up the chops from my plate in my fingers and eat them that way. My mother didn't like the idea. She felt it was barbaric, and she told me so."

"Dan, what about the nut? What are we . . ."

"My father always came to my rescue. I realize now he was encouraging my barbarism, but at the time I thought he really hit the nail on the head. He used to say to Mom, 'Betty, you've got to remember one thing: fingers were invented before forks.'"

"What's that got to do with . . ."

"Fingers were invented before wrenches, too," Forbes said.

He reached up for the nut and wrapped his gloved hands around it. He hesitated a moment, and then began applying pressure. Ted could barely see his face through the plexiglass on his helmet. He saw lines of strain appear, though, thick lines that ran from the wings of Forbes's nose down to his mouth. He could hear Forbes grunting over the suit radio. He wanted to reach up and help, but there was barely enough room for Forbes's own fingers on the troublesome nut.

"It moved," Forbes muttered.

He lifted his back from the ground, his arms straining against the unyielding nut.

"Ug-g-g-gh," he grunted. He tore at the nut again. "Ug-g-gh."

He kept pulling, his hands tight around the metal, twisting, trying to dislodge it. "Come on," he said tightly. "Come on, come on, COME ON!"

He tugged again, and again, grunting all the while, wrestling with the tiny piece of metal as if he had a bear for an opponent.

"There . . . there . . . there she goes!" he shouted triumphantly.

He lay back for an instant, and Ted was surprised to feel sweat on his own forehead. Forbes got up almost instantly and began turning the nut in the other direction, tightening it on the bolt. "That should hold," he said. He paused. "Tough old bird, wasn't it?"

They lost no time now. They kept the tractor moving at a rapid pace. They had lost too much time already, and Forbes wasn't at all sure his makeshift job on the nut would last until they reached the ship.

They were thankful for the night now, glad that it was still dark.

They didn't speak.

Forbes drove swiftly, curving around deep holes, steering clear of clefts in the surface, avoiding all the rocks that sprang up in their path. They couldn't afford another mishap. Time was a precious thing, like a rare jewel. If they could have, they would have locked it in a safe and stood guard over it. They couldn't. Their rare jewel spilled out of their hands as they sped along, and they knew that the Sun would not wait for them. They had to beat the Sun or suffer the consequences. They could only guess at what those consequences would be like. They were not anxious to taste them.

But behind their haste, there seemed to be a sense of utter resignation. It was almost as if they knew they could not beat the Sun, almost as if they knew it would overtake them in their mad rush. When, after many days of travel, they saw the first rays of the Sun, they were not surprised. It was what they had expected all along.

"Dan!"

"I see it. The Sun is rising." "What now?"

"I'm going to try to contact the ship. We can't be too far off."

Together, they fiddled with the dials on the breastplates of their suits, trying to get the ship's frequency.

"Here goes nothing," Forbes murmured. "Hello, Moon rocket. Forbes calling Moon rocket, come in,

Moon rocket, this is Forbes calling Moon rocket, Moon rocket, Moon rocket."

Ted adjusted the dials of his set until Forbes's voice reached him clearly.

"Come in, Moon rocket, come in, Moon rocket. Please come in."

On the horizon, the Sun splashed over the ground, replacing blackness with brilliance, covering darkness with blazing light. No dawn was this. No dawn in the usual sense of the word. No wash of oranges and reds. Just brilliance that flowed like molten gold, filling the shadows, covering the pockmarks with gilt.

"Dan!" the voice erupted. "Is that you?"

"George?"

"Dan, where are you?"

"I don't know. The Sun is almost on us. I'll give it a few minutes before it hits us." "Are you all right? And Baker?" "Fine. Look, George, the Sun . . ." "Did you say it was almost on you?" "Yes, George."

"It hit us a few minutes ago. You can't be far from the ship."

"What'll we do, George?" "Are you on foot?" "Tractor."

"Then drive like blazes. Get started now. Come on, Dan, we need you. We need you like all get-out."

"I'll see you," Forbes said tersely. "We're coming through."

The tractor lurched forward in a sudden burst of speed.

At the same instant, the Sun hit them. It splashed

come back to the ship. He lay on the couch with his arms and legs outstretched, his mouth agape, his eyes closed tightly. His breathing was weak, and his skin was pale.

Ted wrestled with the figures, intricate maps of the Moon spread before him, the supply dump in Mare Imbrium pin-pointed exactly. He took into account the lack of atmosphere and the light gravity. He plotted his orbit as carefully as a man rigging a time-bomb mechanism. He calculated turnover point to the millisecond, knowing that an error this time would mean disaster, complete and irrevocable. He worked with the slide rule ceaselessly, pausing occasionally to gaze through the viewport at the baking ground outside while he wrestled with a difficult mental knot. He would brake again by decelerating and blasting his tubes against the Moon's surface. He calculated the exact moment for the braking blast, and he calculated exactly how long that jet thrust should last. When he finally finished, he had sheets of scrap paper covered with figures—but he knew exactly what he was going to do.

Or at least, he hoped he did.

Dr. Gehardt helped Dr. Phelps strap the two injured men into their couches. They took to their own couches, then, and Ted made a last-minute check of his figures before lying down. He swung the control panel in place over the couch, nicked on the radar switches.

A new thought struck him, and he felt his heart quicken in panic.

"The tubes! The stilts! Have they . . . have they .. . ?"

"They've been repaired," Dr. Phelps assured him. "Fred and I worked on them all the while you were gone."

"And they're all right?"

"Let us hope so," Dr. Gehardt said.

"We followed all the directions Dan left," Dr. Phelps explained. "As far as we know, they're in good condition now. Naturally, we couldn't test them."

"Then there's no way of knowing until . . ."

"Until we try them. That's right."

Ted swallowed hard. Suppose they hadn't been repaired correctly? Suppose one or more of the tubes was still blocked? Suppose the landing stilt collapsed again?

"Baker," Dr. Phelps said softly.

Ted, absorbed in his own thoughts, nodded weakly.

"Ted," Dr. Phelps called again.

"Hmm?"

"Ted, don't worry. We're not expecting miracles. If you get us there, we'll be grateful. If you don't. .." Dr. Phelps shrugged his bony shoulders, ". . . you simply don't. We'll certainly know you tried."

"I'll do my best," Ted said softly.

"Are we about ready?"

Ted heaved a sigh. "Yes. Yes, I guess we are." "Shall we go then?"

"I ... I guess we'd better. I . . ." He gulped hard.

"What it it, Ted?"

"I'm scared stiff," Ted admitted.

"You know something, Ted?"

"What?"

"I've never been so frightened in my life," Dr.

Phelps said. He was not smiling. His eyes were dead serious.

"I think we're all pretty well frightened," Dr. Gehardt put in. "Death in a strange land is never a bright prospect."

Ted nodded, accepting the men's statements. "If you're ready to try . . ."

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," Dr. Phelps said.

Dr. Gehardt nodded and made himself comfortable on the couch.

Ted snapped on the rear radar. The glare of the Moon's surface filled the screen, the portion beneath the blasting tubes in deep, black shadow.

"I'm setting the controls for a time blastoff," Ted said. "We'll be blasting off ten seconds after I push this button."

"We're ready."

"Here goes, then."

Ted stabbed at the button on the control panel, and the roar of the engines thundered into the cabin.

He watched the second hand on the chrono, counting the seconds as they fled by.

"This is it!" he shouted.

The words had scarcely left his mouth when the rocket started to rise, slowly at first, and then ripping away from the Moon's light gravity. Ted kept his eyes on the altimeter, checking their rate of climb. Acceleration pressed down on his chest with its familiar force, but he kept his fingers widespread on the control panel, ready to reach for the buttons that would swing them into an orbit.

Figures ran through his head like runaway cattle, and for a brief instant, he thought they would all blur together into an incomprehensible jumble of numbers. He kept watching the altimeter as the rocket climbed. His fingers moved with lightning speed when the needle nudged the height he had planned on. He pressed the button that gave a blast of the port rockets, releasing the button instantly. He gave another blast, watching the heavy bar that registered the tilt of the ship. Another blast, and the ship was on the course he wanted. It should now be in an orbit that would swing it around the Moon in a matter of minutes. He cut the engines and allowed the rocket to fall. It swung around in a wide arc, matching the curvature of the surface, a metallic bullet that gleamed in the sunlight.

He watched the chrono, aware that the cabin was silent, aware that the men were occupied with their own thoughts. The minute hand crept around as the rocket fell in a tightening arc, closer, closer to the jagged surface below. Quickly he set the flywheel in motion, giving the ship a blast of the starboard jets at the same time. If he'd calculated correctly, they should be nearing Mare Imbrium, and it would soon be time to turn on the stern jets.

The chrono ticked off the seconds. Silently, Ted studied its face with careful scrutiny. He checked the altimeter, and then his eyes fled to the speedometer and back to the chrono once more. In the radar screen overhead, the ground flashed by in a dazzling blur.

There was darkness outside now. They had left the Sun behind them in Mare Crisium.

With a rapid sweep of his eyes, Ted checked the time, altitude, and speed again. His figures were jibing. It might work. He mumbled a prayer softly, a prayer that barely escaped his lips.

Like a team of marching soldiers, the chrono, the altimeter, and the speedometer reached the calculated figures together. Ted took a deep breath and pressed the button that fired the stern jets.

There was a hollow rush of thunder, like a truck slamming into a brick wall. The ship shivered violently and brought its nose up suddenly, pointing it at the sky. They began to drop, faster, faster.

"Something's wrong," Ted shouted.

He gave a short blast of the starboard jets, bringing the ship's stern around, turning it to face the barren surface beneath them. Something was straining at the tubes, roaring in almost animal fury, bellowing to be released. The engines coughed as they dropped closer to the Moon.

Ted knew what was wrong, then, and he reached for the cease-fire button, ready to cut the power from the stern jets.

A muffled explosion sounded from below, and the deck suddenly billowed up beneath them like an opening metal flower casting sharp seeds to the wind. The metal pinged around the compartment, bouncing off the bulkheads, imbedding itself in the couches. There was another explosion, and a lance of fire leaped up through the hole in the deck, scorching the overhead black.

The ship screamed in protest like a wounded animal with its entrails dripping. The bulkheads shook as if they would tear loose at any second. In the radar screen, the surface of the Moon was large and close.

Frantically, Ted stabbed at the button, cutting the jets. He reached for the landing-gear controls, releasing the stilts. The stilts screeched against the jagged surface, filling the cabin with the high whine of tearing metal. Ted clenched his teeth, his insides knotted into a tight ball, as the ship hit the surface.

It bounced like a rubber ball, landing stilts crumbling, metal buckling, tubes crushed beneath the descending force of the ship. It bounced again, then fell like a stone, toppling over to its side, a sickening crunch reverberating into the cabin.

It was all over.

There was only silence now —the silence of the Moon coupled with the deadly silence of the men inside the crippled ship.

He had failed. He had been given his second chance, and he had failed again. He didn't look up. He covered his face with his hands, holding back the bitter tears of defeat. He bit his lip until it bled, his hands tight over his face.

When he heard Dr. Phelps's voice, he didn't believe it. Someone was playing a horrible joke. Someone was trying to make him feel worse than he did.

"We made it!"

He refused to listen. He turned his face to the bulkhead, wanting to crawl in between the atoms of the metal, wanting to hide forever.

"You did it, Ted! You did it!"

He shook his head. Why were they persecuting him? Why did they have to rub it in? He'd crashed the ship, yes; he was sorry, yes, sorrier than they'd ever know. But did they have to . . .

"Look, Ted. Just take a look!"

He turned, then, partly out of curiosity and partly because Dr. Phelps's voice sounded so excited.

He looked through the viewport.

Scattered on the bleak pumice, like the colored bulbs on a Christmas tree, were a red rocket, a blue rocket, a yellow rocket, and a green rocket.

He opened his eyes in amazement.

"The ... the supply dump!" he said, his voice sticking to the lining of his throat.

"Yes, the supply dump," Dr. Gehardt practically sang. "Yes! Yes!"

A new despair filled Ted. "The ship. I crashed her. I . . ."

"Great Jupiter, boy," Dr. Phelps said, "you're not blaming yourself for that, are you?"

"But . . . but it was me ... I mean . . ."

"There were two people responsible for this crash, Ted," Dr. Phelps said. "Fred and I are the guilty culprits."

"But how ..."

"You know what caused that crash as well as we do, Ted," Dr. Gehardt said. "When you pressed the firing stud, your power had no outlet. It erupted into the ship rather than where it should have."

Dr. Phelps nodded. "The tubes were blocked, Ted. And Fred and I were the ones who repaired them. If anyone's to blame, it's us."

"No, I crashed . . ."

"Yes," Dr. Phelps insisted. "The tubes were blocked. You can't get around that, and you shouldn't even try." He wagged his forefinger at Ted. "You'd better be careful, young man. You're developing a strong guilt complex."

"Mixed with a bit of a persecution complex," Dr. Gehardt added.

Ted shook his head adamantly. "What's the difference? We crashed, didn't we? That means we're stuck here now. We'll never get back to the Station."

Dr. Phelps smiled. "You're forgetting something, aren't you, Ted?"

"What?"

"The supply dump. It's right outside. Don't you see? There's no reason for us to rush now. Why, we've got all the time in the world!"

Ted blinked, and then a broad grin covered his face. Somehow, he'd never thought of that.

Forbes was the first to come around. His eyelids twitched for a few minutes, and then he popped his eyes open.

"Hey!" he shouted. "What's going on?"

He swung his legs over the side of the couch and tried to stand, collapsing almost immediately when his bad foot hit the deck.

"Forgot all about this baby," he murmured, looking down at his bandaged foot.

"I didn't," Dr. Phelps said. "I thought I might have to amputate a few toes, but . . ."

"What?" Forbes shouted.

"But I don't think that'll be necessary now. Just keep your foot out of the refrigerator."

"I still can't feel anything down there," Forbes said.

"It'll take a little while," Dr. Phelps answered. "But you'll be all right."

"Thanks, Doc," Forbes said. "Thanks a lot."

"Thank Ted," Dr. Phelps said. "If he hadn't got us to the supplies, it wouldn't have mattered how many toes you lost."

"Then we're here? We're in Mare Imbrium?"

"Yes."

Forbes opened his mouth wide and shouted, Yippee-e-e-e-e-e!"

A new voice joined the group. "Never mind the celebrating," it said. "Check the ship for leakage."

"George," Forbes said, "George, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Merola said dryly. He looked at the gaping hole in the deck and shook his head sadly. "That deck sure looks charming."

For no good reason, the men all began to laugh.

They had a good supper, feasting on food they took from the yellow supply rocket. Before they ate, they replaced their worn batteries with new ones from the dump.

Merola shook his head again while they were eating.

"I'll never understand it. This ship looks as if it's been through a clothes wringer—and yet there are only small leaks which we can repair at our leisure. A miracle."

"No miracle," Forbes said. "Engineering skill." "The deuce you say I"

"The only real miracle is the fact that you're still alive, George. With that head wound and the heat..."

"Aw, my head feels fine," Merola protested. "And what's a little sunburn?"

Dr. Gehardt nodded his head and said, "I think I'm very happy."

"Well, don't you know, Doc?"

"Yes, yes, I am very happy. We can stay on the Moon now. We are all healthy, and there is plenty to eat and drink, and enough materials to build our base. Yes, I am happy."

"We'll have to get started on a power plant right away," Merola said. "Rig up some system to capture and utilize solar energy. I'd say the plant is one of the most . . ."

"The plant!" Ted shouted.

"The plant!" Forbes echoed."My space suit. What'd you do with it?" He leaped to his feet, collapsing back into his chair as his foot gave way under him. "Don't just stand there. The plant!"

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Dr. Phelps asked.

Ted shoved his chair back and sprang across the cabin, almost falling through the hole in the deck. He began tossing space suits around like sacks of old rags, looking for Forbes's suit.

"That's it," Forbes yelled, "that's the one. It's in the pocket. Down near the knee."

Ted reached into the pocket greedily, and then pulled out his hand slowly. He stared down at the bit of green on his palm, crossing the cabin and standing near the table.

"This is our plant," he said.

Dr. Phelps showed mild interest. "Very nice."

"We found it outside," Forbes said calmly.

"Well, it's very nice," Dr. Phelps said. "Especially since you found it . . ." He stopped short, his eyes widening. "OUTSIDE? Did you say outside?"

"Yes, on our trip to the supplies."

"Great heavens, let me see that." He took the plant gingerly, turning it over between thumb and forefinger. "Life, Fred," he said. "Life!"

Merola sat dumfounded, looking at the plant's small, shriveled roots.

"Life," Dr. Gehardt echoed. "The first life found on our new outpost."

Dr. Phelps moved a glass to the center of the table and dropped the plant into the water. It floated for an instant, and then sank to the bottom of the glass, the water magnifying it.

The men finished their meal in silence, each man watching the plant, almost as if they expected it to start talking at any moment.

After supper, they contacted the Space Station by radio. Merola told the whole story to General Pepper, pausing only to catch his breath between long paragraphs. When he'd finished, the general asked, "And you think you can hold out for six months?"

"Six months?" Merola began chuckling softly. "Pardon me, sir, but we can hold out for six years. Man is on the Moon to stay."

"Good. Excellent. Wonderful. By thunder, Merola, that's . . . that's . . ." The general paused, and they heard him shout to someone, "Did you hear that, Charlie? Get on your confounded relay and broadcast that to Earth. Tell them the crew is safe and the Moon is ours. Tell them . . . tell them this is just the beginning. By jove, tell them . . . tell them . . . what are you standing there for, Charlie? Get moving."

The general came back to the microphone and asked, "Is Baker there, Merola?"

Ted's heart stopped beating for an instant.