“‘Introduction: The Role of the Western in the Age of Space. By Karl Adams, Professor of English. Being based on the 2037 Kingsley Amis Seminars in Criticism at the University of Chicago.'”
The poker players were wavering; one of them was nervously examining the worn pieces of paper that served as cards. The rest of the audience had settled down, with looks of boredom or anticipation. Miss Wilkins was back in the air-lock galley, checking the provisions. The melodious voice continued:
“‘One of the most unexpected literary phenomena of our age has been the revival, after half a century of neglect, of the romance known as the “Western.” These stories, set in a background extremely limited in both space and time–the United States of America, Earth, circa 1865-1880–were for a considerable period one of the most popular forms of fiction the world has ever known. Millions were written, almost all published in cheap magazines and shoddily produced books, but out of those millions, a few have survived both as literature and as a record of an age-though we must never forget that the writers were describing an era that had passed long before they were born.
“‘With the opening up of the solar system in the 1970’s, the earth-based frontier of the American West seemed so ludicrously tiny that the reading public lost interest in it. This, of course, was as illogical as dismissing _Hamlet_ on the grounds that events restricted to a small and drafty Danish castle could not possibly be of universal significance.
“‘During the last few years, however, a reaction has set in. I am creditably informed that Western stories are among the most popular reading matter in the libraries of the space liners now plying between the planets. Let us see if we can discover the reason for this apparent paradox–this link between the Old West and the New Space.
“‘Perhaps we can best do this by divesting ourselves of all our modern scientific achievements, and imagining that we are back in the incredibly primitive world of 1870. Picture a vast, open plain, stretching away into the distance until it merges into a far-off line of misty mountains. Across that plain is crawling, with agonizing slowness, a line of clumsy wagons. Around them ride men on horseback, bearing guns–for this is Indian territory.
“‘It will take those wagons longer to reach the mountains than a star-class liner now requires to make the journey from Earth to Moon. The space of the prairie was just as great, therefore, to the men who challenged it as the space of the solar system is to us. This is one of the links we have with the Western; there are others, even more fundamental. To understand them, we must first consider the role of the epic in literature. . . .'”
It seemed to be going well, thought the Commodore. An hour would be long enough; at the end of that time Professor J. would be through the introduction and well into the story. Then they could switch to something else, preferably at an exciting moment in the narrative, so that the audience would be anxious to get back to it.
Yes, the second day beneath the dust had started smoothly, with everyone in good heart. But how many days were there still to go?
The answer to that question depended upon two men who had taken an instant dislike to each other even though they were fifty thousand kilometers apart. As he listened to Dr. Lawson’s account of his discoveries, the Chief Engineer found himself torn in opposing directions. The astronomer had a most unfortunate method of approach, especially for a youngster who was addressing a very senior official more than twice his age. He talks to me, thought Lawrence, at first more amused than angry, as if I’m a retarded child, who has to have everything explained to him in words of one syllable.
When Lawson had finished, the C.E.E. was silent for a few seconds as he examined the photographs that had come over the telefax while they were talking. The earlier one, taken before sunrise, was certainly suggestive–but it was not enough to prove the case, in his opinion. And the one taken after dawn showed nothing at all on the reproduction he had received. There might have been something on the original print, but he would hate to take the word of this unpleasant young man for it.
“This is very interesting, Doctor Lawson,” he said at last. “It’s a great pity, though, that you didn’t continue your observations when you took the first photos. Then we might have had something more conclusive.”
Tom bridled instantly at this criticism, despite–or perhaps because of–the fact that it was well-founded.
“If you think that anyone else could have done better–” he snapped.
“Oh, I’m not suggesting that,” said Lawrence, anxious to keep the peace. “But where do we go from here? The spot you indicate may be fairly small, but its position is uncertain by at least half a kilometer. There may be nothing visible on the surface, even in daylight. Is there any way we can pinpoint it more accurately?”
“There’s one very obvious method. Use this same technique at ground level. Go over the area with an infrared scanner. That will locate any hot spot, even if it’s only a fraction of a degree warmer than its surroundings.”
“A good idea,” said Lawrence. “I’ll see what can be arranged, and will call you back if I need any further information. Thank you very much–Doctor.”
He hung up quickly, and wiped his brow. Then he immediately put through another call to the satellite.
“Lagrange II? Chief Engineer, Earthside, here. Give me the Director, please. . . . Professor Kotelnikov? This is Lawrence. . . . I’m fine, thanks. I’ve been talking to your Doctor Lawson. . . . No, he hasn’t done anything, except nearly make me lose my temper. He’s been looking for our missing dust-cruiser, and he thinks he’s found her. What I’d like to know is–how competent is he?”
In the next five minutes, the Chief Engineer learned a good deal about young Dr. Lawson; rather more, in fact, than he had any right to know, even over a confidential circuit. When Professor Kotelnikov had paused for breath, he interjected sympathetically: “I can understand why you put up with him. Poor kid–I thought orphanages hike that went out with Dickens and the twentieth century. A good thing it _did_ burn down. Do you suppose he set fire to it? No, don’t answer that–you’ve told me he’s a first-class observer, and that’s all I want to know. Thanks a lot. See you down here someday?”
In the next half-hour, Lawrence made a dozen calls to points all over the Moon. At the end of that time, he had accumulated a large amount of information; now he had to act on it.
At Plato Observatory, Father Ferraro thought the idea was perfectly plausible. In fact, he had already suspected that the focus of the quake was under the Sea of Thirst rather than the Mountains of Inaccessibility, but couldn’t prove it because the Sea had such a damping effect on all vibrations. No, a complete set of soundings had never been made; it would be very tedious and time consuming. He’d probed it himself in a few places with telescopic rods, and had always hit bottom at less than forty meters. His guess for the average depth was under ten meters, and it was much shallower round the edges. No, he didn’t have an infrared detector, but the astronomers on Farside might be able to help.
Sorry, no I.R. detector at Dostoevski. Our work is all in the ultraviolet. Try Verne.
Oh yes, we used to do some work in the infrared, a couple of years back–taking spectrograms of giant red stars. But do you know what? There were enough traces of lunar atmosphere to interfere with the readings, so the whole program was shifted out into space. Try Lagrange.
It was at this point that Lawrence called Traffic Control for the shipping schedules from Earth, and found that he was in luck. But the next move would cost a lot of money, and only the Chief Administrator could authorize it.
That was one good thing about Olsen; he never argued with his technical staff over matters that were in their province. He listened carefully to Lawrence’s story, and went straight to the main point.
“If this theory is true,” he said, “there’s a chance that they may still be alive, after all.”
“More than a chance; I’d say it’s quite likely. We know the Sea is shallow, so they can’t be very deep. The pressure on the hull would be fairly low; it may still be intact.”
“So you want this fellow Lawson to help with the search.” The Chief Engineer gave a gesture of resignation. “He’s about the last person I _want_,” he answered. “But I’m afraid we’ve got to have him.”