the ’40s and ‘SOs. But I recall only one story (GULF) specifically written for pulp,
GULF being for Astounding’s unique “prophesied” issue.
Deus volent, I may someday collect my Boy Scout stories as one volume just
as I would like to do with the Puddin’ stories.
NOTHING EVER HAPPENS ON THE MOON
“I never knew a boy from Earth who wasn’t cocky.”
Mr. Andrews frowned at his Senior Patrol Leader.
“That’s childish, Sam. And no answer. I arrive expecting to find the troop ready to
hike. Instead I find you and our visitor about to fight. And both of you Eagle
Scouts! What started it?”
Sam reluctantly produced a clipping. “This, I guess.
It was from the Colorado Scouting News and read:
“Troop 48, Denver-LOCAL SCOUT SEEKS SKYHIGH HONOR. Bruce Hollifield, Eagle Scout, is
moving with his family to South Pole, Venus. Those who know Bruce-and who
doesn’t-expect him to qualify as Eagle (Venus) in jig time. Bruce will spend three
weeks at Luna City, waiting for the Moon-Venus transport. Bruce has been boning up
lately on lunar Scouting, and he has already qualified in space suit operation in
the vacuum chamber at the Pike’s Peak space port. Cornered, Bruce admitted that he
hopes to pass the tests for Eagle Scout (Luna) while on the Moon.
Page 116
“If he does-and we’re betting on Bruce!-he’s a dead cinch to become the
first Triple Eagle in history.
“Go to it, Bruce! Denver is proud of you. Show those Moon Scouts what real
Scouting is like.”
Mr. Andrews looked up. “Where did this come from?”
“Uh, somebody sent it to Peewee.”
“Yes?”
“Well, we all read it and when Bruce came in, the fellows ribbed him. He got
sore.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“Uh .. . well, I was doing it myself.”
“Humph! Sam, this item is no sillier than the stuff our own Scribe turns in
for publication. Bruce didn’t write it, and you yahoos had no business making his
life miserable. Send him in. Meantime call the roll.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, Mr. Andrews-”
“Yes?”
“What’s your opinion? Can this kid possibly qualify for lunar Eagle in three
weeks?”
“No-and I’ve told him so. But he’s durn well going to have his chance. Which
reminds me: you’re his instructor.”
“Me?” Sam looked stricken.
“You. You’ve let me down, Sam; this is your chance to correct it. Understand
me?”
Sam swallowed. “I guess I do.”
“Send Hollifield in.”
Sam found the boy from Earth standing alone, pretending to study the
bulletin board. Sam touched his arm. “The Skipper wants you.”
Bruce whirled around, then stalked away. Sam shrugged and shouted, “Rocket
Patrol-fall in!”
Speedy Owens echoed, “Crescent Patrol-fall in!” As muster ended Mr. Andrews
came out of his office, followed by Bruce. The Earth Scout seemed considerably
chastened.
“Mr. Andrews says I’m to report to you.”
“That’s right.” They eyed each other cautiously. Sam said, “Look,
Bruce-let’s start from scratch.”
“Suits me.”
“Fine. Just tag along with me.” At a sign from the Scoutmaster Sam shouted,
“By twos! Follow me.”
Troop One jostled out the door, mounted a crosstown slidewalk and rode to East Air
Lock.
Chubby Schneider, troop quartermaster, waited there with two assistants,
near a rack of space suits. Duffel was spread around in enormous piles-packaged
grub, tanks of water, huge air bottles, frames of heavy wire, a great steel drum,
everything needed for pioneers on the airless crust of the Moon.
Sam introduced Bruce to the Quartermaster. “We’ve got to outfit him,
Chubby.”
“That new G.E. job might fit him.”
Sam got the suit and spread it out. The suit was impregnated glass fabric,
aluminum-sprayed to silvery whiteness. It closed from crotch to collar with a
zippered gasket. It looked expensive; Bruce noticed a plate on the collar: DONATED
BY THE LUNA CITY KIWANIS KLUB.
The helmet was a plastic bowl, silvered except where swept by the eyes of
the wearer. There it was transparent, though heavily filtered.
Bruce’s uniform was stowed in a locker; Chubby handed him a loose-knit
coverall. Sam and Chubby stuffed him into the suit and Chubby produced the
instrument belt.
Both edges of the belt zipped to the suit; there were several rows of