Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

Nothing to it-he was light as a bird! True, it was hard to keep

heel-and-toe; he wanted to float. He gained speed on a downgrade; suddenly the

ground

was not there when he reached for it. He threw up his hands.

He hung head down on his belt and could hear his guides laughing. “Wha’

happened?” he demanded, as they righted him.

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“Keep your feet on the ground.”

“I know what you’re up against,” added Speedy, “I’ve been to Earth. Your

mass and weight don’t match and your muscles aren’t used to it. You weigh what a

baby weighs, Earth-side, but you’ve got the momentum of a fat man.”

Bruce tried again. Some stops and turns showed him what Speedy meant. His

pack felt like feathers, but unless he banked his turns, it would throw him, even at

a walk. It did throw him, several times, before his legs learned.

Presently, Sam asked, “Think you’re ready for a slow lope?”

“I guess so.”

“Okay-but remember, if you want to turn, you’ve got to slow down first-or

you’ll roll like a hoop. Okay, Speedy. An eight-miler.”

Bruce tried to match their swing. Long, floating strides, like flying. It

was flying! Up! . . . float . . . brush the ground with your foot and up again. It

was better than skating or skiing.

“Wups!” Sam steadied him. “Get your feet out in front.”

As they swung past, Mr. Andrews gave orders for a matching lope.

The unreal hills had moved closer; Bruce felt as if he had been flying all

his life. “Sam,” he said, “do you suppose I can get along by myself?”

“Shouldn’t wonder. We let go a couple o’ miles back.”

“Huh?” It was true; Bruce began to feel like a Moon hand.

Somewhat later a boy’s voice called “Heel and toe!”

The troop dropped into a walk. The pathfinder stood on a rise ahead, holding his

skis up~ The troop halted and unlashed skis. Ahead was a wide basin filled with

soft, powdery stuff.

Bruce turned to Sam, and for the first time looked back to the west. “Jee ..

. miny Crickets!” he breathed.

Earth hung over the distant roof of Luna City, in half phase. It was round

and green and beautiful, larger than the harvest Moon and unmeasurably more lovely

in forest greens, desert browns and glare white of cloud.

Sam glanced at it. “Fifteen o’clock.”

Bruce tried to read the time but was stumped by the fact that the sunrise

line ran mostly across ocean. He questioned Sam. “Huh? See that bright dot on the

dark side? That’s Honolulu-figure from there.”

Bruce mulled this over while binding his skis, then stood up and turned

around, without tripping. “Hmmm-” said Sam, “you’re used to skis.”

“Got my badge.”

“Well, this is different. Just shuffle along and try to keep your feet.”

Bruce resolved to stay on his feet if it killed him. He let a handful of the

soft stuff trickle through his glove. It was light and flaky, hardly packed at all.

He wondered what had caused it.

Mr. Andrews sent Speedy out to blaze trail; Sam and Bruce joined the column.

Bruce was hard put to keep up. The loose soil flew to left and right, settling so

slowly in the weak gravity that it seemed to float in air-yet a ski pole, swung

through such a cloud, cut a knife-sharp hole without swirling it.

The column swung wide to the left, then back again. Off to the right was a

circular depression perhaps fifty yards across; Bruce could not see the bottom. He

paused, intending to question Sam; the Scoutmaster’s voice prodded him. “Bruce! Keep

moving!”

Much later Speedy’s voice called out, “Hard ground!” Shortly the column

reached it and stopped

to remove skis. Bruce switched off his radio and touched his helmet to Sam’s.

“What was that back where the Skipper yelled at me?”

“That? That was a morning glory. They’re poison!”

“A ‘morning glory’?”

“Sort of a sink hole. If you get on the slope, you never get out. Crumbles

out from under you and you wind up buried in the bottom. There you stay-until your

air gives out. Lot of prospectors die that way. They go out alone and are likely to