It was received with fair enthusiasm in some quarters and ironic groans of disapproval in others, but since there was no determined opposition, the Commodore went ahead. Almost automatically, he was elected President of the Court; equally automatic was Irving Schuster’s appointment as General Counsel.
The front-right pair of seats had been reversed so that it faced toward the rear of the cruiser. This served as the bench, shared by the President and Counsel. When everyone had settled down, and the Clerk of the Court (viz. Pat Harris) had called for order, the President made a brief address.
“We are not yet engaged in criminal proceedings,” he said, keeping his face straight with some difficulty. “This is purely a court of enquiry. If any witness feels that he is being intimidated by my learned colleague, he can appeal to the Court. Will the Clerk call the first witness?”
“Er–your Honor–who _is_ the first witness?” said the Clerk, reasonably enough.
It took ten minutes of discussion among the Court, learned Counsel, and argumentative members of the public to settle this important point. Finally it was decided to have a ballot, and the first name to be produced was David Barrett’s.
Smiling slightly, the witness came forward and took his stand in the narrow space before the bench.
Irving Schuster, looking and feeling none too legal in undershirt and underpants, cleared his throat impressively.
“Your name is David Barrett?”
“That is correct.”
“Your occupation?”
“Agricultural engineer, retired.”
“Mr. Barrett, will you tell this court exactly why you have come to the Moon.”
“I was curious to see what it was like here and I had the time and money.”
Irving Schuster looked at Barrett obliquely through his thick glasses; he had always found this had an unsettling effect on witnesses. To wear spectacles was almost a sign of eccentricity in this age, but doctors and lawyers–especially the older ones-still patronized them; indeed, they had come to symbolize the legal and medical professions.
“You were ‘curious to see what it was like,'” Schuster quoted. “That’s no explanation. Why were you curious?”
“I am afraid that question is so vaguely worded that I cannot answer it. Why does one do anything?”
Commodore Hansteen relaxed with a smile of pleasure. This was just what he wanted–to get the passengers arguing and talking freely about something that would be of mutual interest to them all, but would arouse no passions or controversy. (It might do that, of course, but it was up to him to keep order in Court.)
“I admit,” continued Counsel, “that my question might have been more specific. I will try to reframe it.”
He thought for a moment, shuffling his notes. They consisted merely of sheets from one of the tourist guides. He had scribbled a few hines of questioning in the margins, but they were really for effect and reassurance. He had never hiked to stand up in court without something in his hand; there were times when a few seconds of imaginary consultation were priceless.
“Would it be fair to say that ‘you were attracted by the Moon’s scenic beauties?”
“Yes, that was part of the attraction. I had seen the tourist literature and movies, of course, and wondered if the reality would live up to it.”
“And has it done so?”
“I would say,” was the dry answer, “that it has exceeded my expectations.”
There was general laughter from the rest of the company. Commodore Hansteen rapped loudly on the back of his seat.
“Order!” he called. “If there are any disturbances, I shall have to clear the Court!”
This, as he had intended, started a much louder round of laughter, which he let run its natural course. When the mirth had died down, Schuster continued in his most “Where were you on the night of the twenty-second?” tone of voice.
“This is very interesting, Mr. Barrett. You have come all the way to the Moon, at considerable expense, to hook at the view. Tell me-have you ever seen the Grand Canyon?”
“No. Have you?”
“Your Honor!” appealed Schuster. “The witness is being unresponsive.”
Hansteen looked severely at Mr. Barrett, who did not seem in the least abashed.
“_You_ are not conducting this enquiry, Mr. Barrett. Your job is to answer questions, not to ask them.”
“I beg the Court’s pardon, my Lord,” replied the witness.
“Er–am I ‘my Lord’?” said Hansteen uncertainly, turning to Schuster. “I thought I was ‘your Honor.'”
The lawyer gave the matter several seconds of solemn thought.
“I suggest–your Honor–that each witness use the procedure to which he is accustomed in his country. As long as due deference is shown to the Court, that would seem to be sufficient.”
“Very well–proceed.”
Schuster turned to his witness once more.
“I would hike to know, Mr. Barrett, why you found it necessary to visit the Moon while there was so much of Earth that you hadn’t seen. Can you give us any valid reason for this illogical behavior?”
It was a good question, just the sort that would interest everyone, and Barrett was now making a serious attempt to answer it.
“I’ve seen a fair amount of Earth,” he said slowly, with his precise English accent–almost as great a rarity now as Schuster’s spectacles. “I’ve stayed at the Hotel Everest, been to both Poles, even gone to the bottom of the Calypso Deep. So I know something about our planet. Let’s say it had lost its capacity to surprise me. The Moon, on the other hand, was completely new–a whole world less than twenty-four hours away. I couldn’t resist the novelty.”
Hansteen listened to the show and careful analysis with only half his mind. He was unobtrusively examining the audience while Barrett spoke. By now he had formed a good picture of _Selene’s_ crew and passengers, and had decided who could be relied upon, and who would give trouble, if conditions became bad.
The key man, of course, was Captain Harris. The Commodore knew his type well; he had met it so often in space–and more often still at such training establishments as Astrotech. (Whenever he made a speech there, it was to a front row of freshly scrubbed and barbered Pat Harrises.) Pat was a competent but unambitious youngster with mechanical interests who had been lucky enough to find a job that suited him perfectly, and which made no greater demands upon him than care and courtesy. (Attractive lady passengers, Hansteen was quite certain, would have no complaints on the hatter score.) He would be loyal, conscientious, and unimaginative, would do his duty as he saw it, and in the end would die gamely without making a fuss. That was a virtue not possessed by many far abler men, and it was one they would need badly aboard the cruiser if they were still here five days from now.
Miss Wilkins, the stewardess, was almost as important as the captain in the scheme of things; she was certainly not the stereotyped space-hostess image, all vapid charm and frozen smile. She was, Hansteen had already decided, a young lady of character and considerable education–but so, for that matter, were many space hostesses he had known.
Yes, he was lucky with the crew. And what about the passengers? They were considerably above average, of course; otherwise they would not have been on the Moon in the first place. There was an impressive reservoir of brains and talent here inside _Selene_, but the irony of the situation was that neither brains nor talent could help them now. What was needed was character, fortitude–or, in a blunter word, bravery.
Few men in this age ever knew the need for physical bravery. From birth to death, they never came face to face with danger. The men and women aboard _Selene_ had no training for what lay ahead, and he could not keep them occupied much longer with games and amusements.
Some time in the next twelve hours, he calculated, the first cracks would appear. By then it would be obvious that something was holding up the search parties, and that if they found the cruiser at all, the discovery might be too hate.
Commodore Hansteen glanced swiftly round the cabin. Apart from their scanty clothing and slightly unkempt appearance, all these twenty-one men and women were still rational, self-controlled members of society.
Which, he wondered, would be the first to go?
Chapter 10
Dr. Tom Lawson, so Chief Engineer Lawrence had decided, was an exception to the old saying “To know all is to forgive all.” The knowledge that the astronomer had passed a loveless, institutionalized childhood and had escaped from his origins by prodigies of pure intellect, at the cost of all other human qualities, helped one to understand him–but not to like him. It was singular bad luck, thought Lawrence, that he was the only scientist within three hundred thousand kilometers who happened to have an infrared detector, and knew how to use it.
He was now sitting in the observer’s seat of Duster Two, making the final adjustments to the crude but effective lash-up he had contrived. A camera tripod had been fixed on the canopy of the ski, and the detector had been mounted on this, in such a way that it could pan in any direction.