The skis coasted to a halt on either side of the marker, and at once erupted into activity. Eight space-suited figures started unshipping roped bundles and large cylindrical drums at a great speed, according to the prearranged plan. Swiftly, the raft began to take shape as its slotted metal framework was bolted into position round the drums, and the light Fiberglas flooring was laid across it.
No construction job in the whole history of the Moon had ever been carried out in such a blaze of publicity, thanks to the watchful eye in the mountains. But once they had started work, the eight men on the skis were totally unconscious of the millions looking over their shoulders. All that mattered to them now was getting that raft in position, and fixing the jigs which would guide the hollow, life-bearing drills down to their target.
Every five minutes, or less, Lawrence spoke to Selene, keeping Pat and McKenzie informed of progress. The fact that he was also informing the anxiously waiting world scarcely crossed his mind.
At last, in an incredible twenty minutes, the drill was ready, its first five-meter section poised like a harpoon ready to plunge into the Sea. But this harpoon was designed to bring life, not death.
“We’re coming down,” said Lawrence. “The first section’s going in now.”
“You’d better hurry,” whispered Pat. “I can’t hold out much longer.”
He seemed to be moving in a fog; he could not remember a time when it was not there. Apart from the dull ache in his lungs, he was not really uncomfortable–merely incredibly, unbelievably tired. He was now no more than a robot, going about a task whose meaning he had long ago forgotten, if indeed he had ever known it. There was a wrench in his hand; he had taken it out of the tool kit hours ago, knowing that it would be needed. Perhaps it would remind him of what he had to do when the time came.
From a great distance, it seemed, he heard a snatch of conversation that was obviously not intended for him. Someone had forgotten to switch channels.
“We should have fixed it so that the drill could be unscrewed from this end. Suppose he’s too weak to do it?”
“We had to take the risk; the extra fittings would have delayed us at least an hour. Give me that–”
Then the circuit went dead; but Pat had heard enough to make him angry–or as angry as a man could be, in his halfstupefied condition. He’d show them–he and his good pal Doctor Mac–Mac what? He could no longer remember the name.
He turned slowly round in his swiveling seat and looked back along the Golgotha-like shambles of the cabin. For a moment he could not find the physicist among the other tumbled bodies; then he saw that he was kneeling beside Mrs. Williams, whose dates of birth and death now looked like being very close together. McKenzie was holding the oxygen mask over her face, quite unaware of the fact that the telltale hiss of gas from the cylinder had ceased, and the gauge had long ago reached zero.
“We’re almost there,” said the radio. “You should hear us hit at any minute.”
So soon? thought Pat. But, of course, a heavy tube would slice down through the dust almost as quickly as it could be lowered. He thought he was very clever to deduce this.
Bang! Something had hit the roof. But where?
“I can hear you,” he whispered. “You’ve reached us.”
“We know,” answered the voice. “We can feel the contact. But you have to do the rest. Can you tell where the drill’s touching? Is it in a clear section of the roof, or is it over the wiring? We’ll raise and lower it several times, to help you locate it.”
Pat felt rather aggrieved at this. It seemed terribly unfair that he should have to decide such a complicated matter.
Knock, knock went the drill against the roof. He couldn’t for the life of him (why did that phrase seem so appropriate?) locate the exact position of the sound. Well, they had nothing to lose.
“Go ahead,” he murmured. “You’re in the clear.” He had to repeat it twice before they understood his words.
Instantly–they were quick off the pad up there–the drill started whirring against the outer hull. He could hear the sound very distinctly, more beautiful than any music.
The bit was through the first obstacle in less than a minute. He heard it race, then stop as the motor was cut. Then the operator lowered it the few centimeters to the inner hull, and started it spinning again.
The sound was much louder now, and could be pinpointed exactly. It came, Pat was mildly disconcerted to note, from very close to the main cable conduit, along the center of the roof. If it went through _that_ . . .
Slowly and unsteadily he got to his feet and walked over to the source of the sound. He had just reached it when there was a shower of dust from the ceiling, a sudden spitting of electricity–and the main lights went out.
Luckily, the emergency lighting remained on. It took Pat’s eyes several seconds to adapt to the dim red glow. Then he saw that a metal tube was protruding through the roof. It moved slowly downward until it had traveled half a meter into the cabin; and there it stopped.
The radio was talking in the background, saying something that he knew was very important. He tried to make sense of it as he fitted the wrench around the bit head, and tightened the screw adjustment.
“_Don’t_ undo the bit until we tell you,” said that remote voice. “We had no time to fit a nonreturn valve–the pipe’s open to vacuum at this end. We’ll tell you as soon as we’re ready. I repeat, _don’t remove the bit until we say so_.”
Pat wished the man would stop bothering him; he knew exactly what to do. If he leaned with all his might on the handle of the wrench–so–the drill head would come off, and he’d be able to breathe again.
Why wasn’t it moving? He tried once more.
“My God,” said the radio. “Stop that! We’re not ready! You’ll lose all your air!”
Just a minute, thought Pat, ignoring the distraction. There’s something wrong here. A screw can turn _this_ way–or _that_ way. Suppose I’m tightening it up, when I should be doing the opposite?
This was horribly complicated. He looked at his right hand, then his left; neither seemed to help. (Nor did that silly man shouting on the radio.) Well, he could try the other way and see if that was better.
With great dignity, he performed a complete circuit of the tube, keeping one arm wrapped around it. As he fell on the wrench from the other side, he grabbed it with both hands to keep himself from collapsing. For a moment he rested against it, head bowed.
“Up periscope,” he mumbled. Now what on Earth did that mean? He had no idea, but he had heard it somewhere and it seemed appropriate.
He was still puzzling over the matter when the drill head started to unscrew beneath his weight, very easily and smoothly.
Fifteen meters above, Chief Engineer Lawrence and his assistants stood for a moment almost paralyzed with horror. This was something that no one could ever have imagined; they had thought of a hundred other accidents, but not _this_.
“Coleman–Matsui!” snapped Lawrence. “Connect up that oxygen line, for God’s sake!”
Even as he shouted at them, he knew that it would be too late. There were two connections still to be made before the oxygen circuit was closed. And, of course, they were screw threads, not quick-release couplings. Just one of those little points that normally wouldn’t matter in a thousand years, but now made all the difference between life and death.
Like Samson at the mill, Pat trudged round and round the pipe, pushing the handle of the wrench before him. It offered no opposition, even in his present feeble state. By now the bit had unscrewed more than two centimeters; surely it would fall off in a few more seconds.
Ah–almost there. He could hear a faint hissing, that grew steadily as the bit unwound. That would be oxygen rushing into the cabin, of course. In a few seconds, he would be able to breathe again, and all his troubles would be over.
The hiss had deepened to an ominous whistling, and for the first time Pat began to wonder if he was doing precisely the right thing. He stopped, looked thoughtfully at the wrench, and scratched his head. His slow mental processes could find no fault with his action; if the radio had given him orders then, he might have obeyed, but it had abandoned the attempt.
Well, back to work. (It was years since he’d had a hangover like this.) He started to push on the wrench once more-and fell flat on his face as the drill came loose.