That was not quite true, as Commodore Hansteen was now about to prove. He knew, as well as any man alive, that they would be fighting boredom as well as fear. They had been thrown upon their own resources; in an age of universal entertainment and communications, they had suddenly been cut off from the rest of the human race. Radio, TV, telefax newssheets, movies, telephone–all these things now meant no more to them than to the people of the Stone Age. They were like some ancient tribe gathered round the campfire, in a wilderness that held no other men. Even on the Pluto run, thought Commodore Hansteen, they had never been as lonely as this. They had had a fine library and had been well stocked with every possible form of canned entertainment, and they could talk by tight beam to the inner planets whenever they wished. But on Selene, there was not even a pack of cards.
That was an idea. “Miss Morley! As a journalist, I imagine you have a notebook?”
“Why, yes, Commodore.”
“Fifty-two blank sheets in it still?”
“I think so.”
“Then I must ask you to sacrifice them. Please cut them out and mark a pack of cards on them. No need to be artistic–as long as they’re legible, and the lettering doesn’t show through the back.”
“How are you going to shuffle paper cards?” asked somebody.
“A good problem for our Entertainment Committee to solve. Anyone who thinks they have talent in this direction?”
“I used to be on the stage,” said Myra Schuster, rather hesitantly. Her husband did not look at all pleased by this revelation, but it delighted the Commodore.
“Excellent! Though we’re a little cramped for space, I was hoping we might be able to put on a play.”
Now Mrs. Schuster looked as unhappy as her husband.
“It was rather a long time ago,” she said, “and I–I never did much talking.”
There were several chuckles, and even the Commodore had difficulty in keeping a straight face. Looking at Mrs. Schuster, on the wrong side of both fifty years and a hundred kilos, it was a little hard to imagine her as, he suspected, a chorus girl.
“Never mind,” he said, “it’s the spirit that counts. Who will help Mrs. Schuster?”
“I’ve done some amateur theatricals,” said Professor Jayawardene. “Mostly Brecht and Ibsen, though.”
That final “though” indicated recognition of the fact that something a little lighter would be appreciated here–say, one of the decadent but amusing comedies of the 1980’s, which had invaded the airways in such numbers with the collapse of TV censorship.
There were no more volunteers for this job, so the Commodore moved Mrs. Schuster and Professor Jayawardene into adjacent seats and told them to start program-planning. It seemed unlikely that such an ill-assorted pair would produce anything useful, but one never knew. The main thing was to keep everyone busy, either on tasks of their own or co-operating with others.
“We’ll leave it at that for the moment,” concluded Hansteen. “If you have any bright ideas, please give them to the committee. Meanwhile, I suggest you stretch your legs and get to know each other. Everyone’s announced his job and home town; many of you must have common interests or know the same friends. You’ll have plenty of things to talk about.” And plenty of time, too, he added silently.
He was conferring with Pat in the pilot’s cubicle when they were joined by Dr. McKenzie, the Australian physicist. He looked very worried–even more so than the situation merited.
“There’s something I want to tell you, Commodore,” he said urgently. “If I’m right, that seven-day oxygen reserve doesn’t mean a thing. There’s a much more serious danger.”
“What’s that?”
“Heat.” The Australian indicated the outside world with a wave of his hand. “We’re blanketed by this stuff, and it’s about the best insulator you can have. On the surface, the heat our machines and bodies generated could escape into space, but down here it’s trapped. That means we’ll get hotter and hotter–until we cook.”
“My God,” said the Commodore. “I never thought of that. How long do you think it will take?”
“Give me half an hour, and I can make a fair estimate. My guess is–not much more than a day.”
The Commodore felt a wave of utter helplessness sweep over him. There was a horrible sickness at the pit of his stomach, like the second time he had been in free fall. (Not the first–he had been ready for it then. But on the second trip, he had been overconfident.) If this estimate was right, all their hopes were blasted. They were slim enough in all conscience, but given a week there was a slight chance that something might be done. With only a day, it was out of the question. Even if they were found in that time, they could never be rescued.
“You might check the cabin temperature,” continued McKenzie. “That will give us some indication.”
Hansteen walked to the control panel and glanced at the maze of dials and indicators.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” he said. “It’s gone up two degrees already.”
“Over a degree an hour. That’s about what I figured.”
The Commodore turned to I-iarris, who had been listening to the discussion with growing alarm.
“Is there anything we can do to increase the cooling? How much reserve power has our air-conditioning gear got?”
Before Pat could answer, the physicist intervened.
“That won’t help us,” he said a little impatiently. “All that our refrigeration does is to pump heat out of the cabin and radiate it away. But that’s exactly what it _can’t_ do now, because of the dust around us. If we try to run the cooling plant faster, it will actually make matters worse.”
There was a gloomy silence that lasted until the Commodore said: “Please check those calculations, and let me have your best estimate as soon as you can. And for heaven’s sake don’t let this go beyond the three of us.”
He felt suddenly very old. He had been almost enjoying his unexpected last command; and now it seemed that he would have it only for a day.
At that very moment, though neither party knew the fact, one of the searching dust-skis was passing overhead. Built for speed, efficiency, and cheapness, not for the comfort of tourists, it bore little resemblance to the sunken _Selene_. It was, in fact, no more than an open sledge with seats for pilot and one passenger–each wearing a space suit–and with a canopy overhead to give protection from the sun. A simple control panel, motor, and twin fans at the rear, storage racks for tools and equipment–that completed the inventory. A ski going about its normal work usually towed at least one carrier sledge behind it, sometimes two or three, but this one was traveling light. It had zigzagged back and forth across several hundred square kilometers of the Sea, and had found absolutely nothing.
Over the suit intercom, the driver was talking to his companion.
“What do _you_ think happened to them, George? I don’t believe they’re here.”
“Where else can they be? Kidnaped by Outsiders?”
“I’m almost ready to buy that” was the half-serious answer. Sooner or later, all astronauts believed, the human race would meet intelligences from elsewhere. That meeting might still be far in the future but meanwhile, the hypothetical “Outsiders” were part of the mythology of space, and got the blame for everything that could not be explained in any other way.
It was easy to believe in them when you were with a mere handful of companions on some strange, hostile world where the very rocks and air (if there _was_ air) were completely alien. Then, nothing could be taken for granted, and the experience of a thousand Earth-bound generations might be useless. As ancient man had peopled the unknown around him with gods and spirits, so _Homo astronauticus_ looked over his shoulder when he landed upon each new world, wondering who or what was there already. For a few brief centuries, Man had imagined himself the lord of the Universe, and those primeval hopes and fears had been buried in his subconscious. But now they were stronger than ever, and with good reason, as he looked into the shining face of the heavens and thought of the power and knowledge that must be lurking there.
“Better report to Base,” said George. “We’ve covered our area, and there’s no point in going over it again. Not until sunrise, anyway. We’ll have a much better chance of finding something then. This damned earthlight gives me the creeps.”
He switched on the radio, and gave the ski’s call sign.
“Duster Two calling Traffic Control. Over.”
“Port Roris Traffic Control here. Found anything?”
“Not a trace. What’s new from your end?”
“We don’t think she’s out in the Sea. The Chief Engineer wants to speak to you.”
“Right; put him on.”
“Hello, Duster Two. Lawrence here. Plato Observatory’s just reported a quake near the Mountains of Inaccessibility. It took place at nineteen thirty-five, which is near enough the time when _Selene_ should have been in Crater Lake. They suggest she’s been caught in an avalanche somewhere in that area. So head for the mountains and see if you can spot any recent slides or rockfalls.”