Now that it was obvious what had happened, the suspicions of all the other news services had been replaced by frank admiration for Spenser’s luck and enterprise. It would be a little while yet before they realized that he had an even bigger trick up his capacious sleeve.
The Communications Center at Clavius had seen many dramatic moments, but this was one of the most unforgettable. It was, thought Commissioner Davis, almost like listening to voices from beyond the grave. A few hours ago, all these men and women were presumed dead–yet here they were, fit and cheerful, lining up at that buried microphone to relay messages of reassurance to their friends and relatives. Thanks to the probe which Lawrence had left as marker and antenna, that fifteen-meter blanket of dust could no longer cut the cruiser off from the rest of mankind.
The impatient reporters had to wait until there was a break in _Selene’s_ transmission before they could get their interviews. Miss Wilkins was now speaking, dictating messages that were being handed to her by the passengers. The cruiser must have been full of people scribbling telegraphese on the backs of torn-up guidebooks, trying to condense the maximum amount of information into the minimum number of words. None of this material, of course, could be quoted or reproduced; it was all private, and the Postmasters General of three planets would descend in their combined wrath upon any reporter foolish enough to use it. Strictly speaking, they should not even be listening in on this circuit, as the Communications Officer had several times pointed out with increasing degrees of indignation.
“. . . tell Martha, Jan, and Ivy not to worry about me, I’ll be home soon. Ask Tom how the Ericson deal went, and let me know when you call back. My love to you all–George. End of message. Did you get that? _Selene_ calling. Over.”
“Luna Central calling _Selene_. Yes, we have it all down; we’ll see that the messages get delivered and will relay the answers as soon as they come in. Now can we speak to Captain Harris? Over.”
There was a brief pause, during which the background noises in the cruiser could be clearly heard–the sound of voices, slightly reverberant in this enclosed space, the creak of a chair, a muffled “Excuse me.” Then:
“Captain Harris calling Central. Over.”
Commissioner Davis took the mike.
“Captain Harris, this is the Tourist Commissioner. I know that you all have messages you wish to send, but the news services are here and are very anxious to have a few words with you. First of all, could you give us a brief description of conditions inside _Selene?_ Over.”
“Well, it’s very hot, and we aren’t wearing much clothes. But I don’t suppose we can grumble about the heat, since it helped you to find us. Anyway, we’ve grown used to it. The air’s still good, and we have enough food and water, though the menu is–let’s say it’s monotonous. What more do you want to know? Over.”
“Ask him about morale–how are the passengers taking it?–are there any signs of strain?” said the representative of Triplanetary Publications. The Tourist Commissioner relayed the question, rather more tactfully. It seemed to cause slight embarrassment at the other end of the line.
“Everyone’s behaved very well,” said Pat, just a little too hastily. “Of course, we all wonder how long it will take you to get us out. Can you give us any ideas on that? Over.”
“Chief Engineer Lawrence is in Port Roris now, planning rescue operations,” Davis answered. “As soon as he has an estimate, we’ll pass it on. Meanwhile, how are you occupying your time? Over.”
Pat told him, thereby enormously multiplying the sales of _Shane_ and, less happily, giving a boost to the flagging fortunes of _The Orange and the Apple_. He also gave a brief account of the court proceedings–now terminated sine die.
“That must have been amusing entertainment,” said Davis. “But now you won’t have to rely on your own resources. We can send you anything you want–music, plays, discussions. Just give the word–we’ll fix it. Over.”
Pat took his time in answering this. The radio link had already transformed their lives, had brought them hope and put them in touch with their loved ones. Yet, in a way he was almost sony that their seclusion was ended. The heart-warming sense of solidarity, which even Miss Morley’s outburst had scarcely ruffled, was already a fading dream. They no longer formed a single group, united in the common cause of survival. Now their lives had diverged again into a score of independent aims and ambitions. Humanity had swallowed them up once more, as the ocean swallows a raindrop.
Chapter 16
Chief Engineer Lawrence did not believe that committees ever achieved anything. His views were well known on the Moon, for shortly after the last biannual visit of the Lunar Board of Survey, a notice had appeared on his desk conveying the information: A BOARD IS LONG, HARD, AND NARROW. IT IS MADE OF WOOD.
But he approved of this committee, because it fulfilled his somewhat stringent requirements. He was chairman; there were no minutes, no secretary, no agenda. Best of all, he could ignore or accept its recommendations as he pleased. He was the man in charge of rescue operations, unless the Chief Administrator chose to sack him–which he would do only under extreme pressure from Earth. The committee existed merely to provide ideas and technical knowledge; it was his private brain trust.
Only half of its dozen members were physically present; the rest were scattered over Moon, Earth, and space. The soilphysics expert on Earth was at a disadvantage, for owing to the finite speed of radio waves, he would always be a second and a half in arrears, and by the time his comments could get to the Moon, almost three seconds would have passed. He had accordingly been asked to make notes and to save his views until the end, only interrupting if it was absolutely necessary. As many people had discovered, after setting up lunar conference calls at great expense, nothing hamstrung a brisk discussion more effectively than that three-second time lag.
“For the benefit of the newcomers,” said Lawrence, when the roll call had been completed, “I’ll brief you on the situation. _Selene_ is fifteen meters down, on a level keel. She’s undamaged, with all her equipment functioning, and the twentytwo people inside her are still in good spirits. They have enough oxygen for ninety hours–that’s the deadline we have to keep in mind.
“For those of you who don’t know what Selene looks like, here’s a one-in-twenty scale model.” He lifted the model from the table, and turned it slowly in front of the camera. “She’s just like a bus, or a small aircraft; the only thing unique is her propulsion system, which employs these wide-bladed, variable-pitch fans.
“Our great problem, of course, is the dust. If you’ve never seen it, you can’t imagine what it’s like. Any ideas you may have about sand or other materials on Earth won’t apply here; this stuff is more like a liquid. Here’s a sample of it.”
Lawrence picked up a tall vertical cylinder, the lower third of which was filled with an amorphous gray substance. He tilted it, and the stuff began to flow. It moved more quickly than syrup, more slowly than water, and it took a few seconds for its surface to become horizontal again after it had been disturbed. No one could ever have guessed, by looking at it, that it was not a fluid.
“This cylinder is sealed,” explained Lawrence, “with a vacuum inside, so the dust is showing its normal behavior. In air, it’s quite different; it’s much stickier, and behaves rather like very fine sand or talcum powder. I’d better warn you– it’s impossible to make a synthetic sample that has the properties of the real thing. It takes a few billion years of desiccation to produce the genuine article. If you want to do some experimenting, we’ll ship you as much dust as you like; heaven knows, we can spare it.
“A few other points. _Selene_ is three kilometers from the nearest solid land–the Mountains of Inaccessibility. There may be several hundred meters of dust beneath her, though we’re not sure of that. Nor can we be quite sure that there will be no more cave-ins, though the geologists think it’s very unlikely.
“The only way we can reach the site is by dust-ski. We’ve two units, and another one is being shipped round from Farside. They can carry or tow up to five tons of equipment; the largest single item we could put on a sledge would be about two tons. So we can’t bring any really heavy gear to the site.
“Well, that’s the position. We have ninety hours. Any suggestion? I’ve some ideas of my own, but I’d like to hear yours first.”