Beyond doubt, there was the heat trail of _Selene_; and there also, much fainter, were the zigzags of the dust-skis that even now were searching for her. All the trails converged toward the Mountains of Inaccessibility and there vanished beyond his field of view.
He was much too tired to examine them closely, and in any event it no longer mattered, for this merely confirmed what was already known. His only satisfaction, which was of some importance to him, lay in the proof that another piece of Lawson-built equipment had obeyed his will. For the record, he photographed the screen, then staggered to bed to catch up with his arrears of sleep.
Three hours later he awoke from a restless slumber. Despite his extra hour in bed, he was still tired, but something was worrying him and would not let him sleep. As the faint whisper of moving dust had disturbed Pat Harris in the sunken Selene, so also, fifty thousand kilometers away, Tom Lawson was recalled from sleep by a trifling variation from the normal. The mind has many watchdogs; sometimes they bark unnecessarily, but a wise man never ignores their warning.
Still bleary-eyed, Tom left the cluttered little cell that was his private cabin aboard Lagrange, hooked himself on to the nearest moving belt, and drifted along the gravityless corridors until he had reached the Observatory. He exchanged a surly good morning (though it was now late in the satellite’s arbitrary afternoon) with those of his colleagues who did not see him in time to take avoiding action. Then, thankful to be alone, he settled down among the instruments that were the only things he loved.
He ripped the photograph out of the one-shot camera where it had been lying all night, and looked at it for the first time. It was then that he saw the stubby trail emerging from the Mountains of Inaccessibility, and ending a very short distance away in the Sea of Thirst.
He must have seen it last night when he looked at the screen–but he had not noticed it. For a scientist, that was a serious, almost an unforgivable, lapse, and Tom felt very angry with himself. He had let his preconceived ideas affect his powers of observation.
What did it mean? He examined the area closely with a magnifier. The trail ended in a small, diffuse dot, which he judged to be about two hundred meters across. It was very odd–almost as if _Selene_ had emerged from the mountains, and then taken off like a spaceship.
Tom’s first theory was that she had blown to pieces, and that this smudge of heat was the aftermath of the explosion. But in that case, there would have been plenty of wreckage, most of it light enough to float on the dust. The skis could hardly have missed it when they passed through this area–as the thin, distinctive track of one showed it had indeed done.
There had to be some other explanation, yet the alternative seemed absurd. It was almost impossible to imagine that anything as large as _Selene_ could sink without trace in the Sea of Thirst, merely because there had been a quake in that neighborhood. He certainly could not call the Moon on the evidence of a single photograph and say, “You’re looking in the wrong place.” Though he pretended that the opinion of others meant nothing to him, Tom was terrified of making a fool of himself. Before he could advance this fantastic theory, he would have to get more evidence.
Through the telescope, the Sea was now a flat and featureless glare of light. Visual observation merely confirmed what he had proved before sunrise: there was nothing more than a few centimeters high projecting above the dust surface. The infrared scanner was no greater help; the heat trails had vanished completely, wiped out hours ago by the sun.
Tom adjusted the instrument for maximum sensitivity, and searched the area where the trail had ended. Perhaps there was some lingering trace that could be picked up even now, some faint smudge of heat that still persisted, strong enough to be detected even in the warmth of the lunar morning. For the sun was still low, and its rays had not yet attained the murderous power they would possess at noon.
Was it imagination? He had the gain turned full up, so that the instrument was on the verge of instability. From time to time, at the very limit of its detecting power, he thought he could see a tiny glimmer of heat, in the exact area where last night’s track had ended.
It was all infuriatingly inconclusive–not at all the sort of evidence that a scientist needed, especially when he was going to stick his neck out. If he said nothing, no one would ever know, but all his life he would be haunted by doubts. Yet if he committed himself, he might raise false hopes, become the laughingstock of the solar system, or be accused of seeking personal publicity.
He could not have it both ways; he would have to make a decision. With great reluctance, knowing that he was taking a step from which there could be no turning back, he picked up the Observatory phone.
“Lawson here,” he said. “Get me Luna Central–priority.”
Chapter 8
Aboard _Selene_, breakfast had been adequate but hardly inspiring. There were several complaints from passengers who thought that crackers and compressed meat, a dab of honey and a glass of tepid water, scarcely constituted a good meal. But the Commodore had been adamant. “We don’t know how long this has got to last us,” he said, “and I’m afraid we can’t have hot meals. There’s no way of preparing them, and it’s too warm in the cabin already. Sorry, no more tea or coffee. And frankly, it won’t do any of us much harm to cut down on the calories for a few days.” That came out before he remembered Mrs. Schuster, and he hoped that she wouldn’t take it as a personal affront. Ungirdled after last night’s general clothesshedding, she now looked rather like a good-natured hippopotamus, as she lay sprawled over a seat and a half.
“The sun’s just risen overhead,” continued Hansteen, “the search parties will be out, and it’s only a matter of time before they locate us. It’s been suggested that we have a sweepstake on that; Miss Morley, who’s keeping the log, will collect your bets.
“Now about our program for the day. Professor Jayawardene, perhaps you’ll let us know what the Entertainment Committee has arranged.”
The Professor was a small, birdlike person whose gentle dark eyes seemed much too large for him. It was obvious that he had taken the task of entertainment very seriously, for his delicate brown hand clutched an impressive sheaf of notes.
“As you know,” he said, “my speciality is the theater–but I’m afraid that doesn’t help us very much. It would be nice to have a play-reading, and I thought of writing out some parts; unfortunately, we’re too short of paper to make that possible. So we’ll have to think of something else.
“There’s not much reading matter on board, and some of it is rather specialized. But we do have two novels–a university edition of one of the classic Westerns, _Shane_, and this new historical romance, _The Orange and the Apple_. The suggestion is that we form a panel of readers and go through them. Has anyone any objection–or any better ideas?”
“We want to play poker,” said a firm voice from the rear.
“But you can’t play poker _all_ the time,” protested the Professor, thus showing a certain ignorance of the nonacademic world. The Commodore decided to go to his rescue.
“The reading need not interfere with the poker,” he said. “Besides, I suggest you take a break now and then. Those cards won’t last much longer.”
“Well, which book shall we start on first? And any volunteers as readers? I’ll be quite happy to do so, but we want some variety.”
“I object to wasting our time on _The Orange and tile Apple_,” said Miss Morley. “It’s utter trash, and most of it is–er–near-pornography.”
“How do _you_ know?” asked David Barrett, the Englishman who had commended the tea. The only answer was an indignant sniff. Professor Jayawardene looked quite unhappy, and glanced at the Commodore for support. He did not get any; Hansteen was studiously looking the other way. If the passengers relied on him for everything, that would be fatal. As far as possible, he wanted them to stand on their own feet.
“Very well,” said the Professor. “To prevent any argument, we’ll start with _Shane_.”
There were several protesting cries of: “We want _The Orange and the Apple!_” but, surprisingly, the Professor stood firm. “It’s a very long book,” he said. “I really don’t think we’ll have time to finish it before we’re rescued.” He cleared his throat, looked around the cabin to see if there were any further objections, and then started to read in an extremely pleasant though rather singsong voice.