He put a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “You aren’t squeamish, or you wouldn’t be a bomb officer. Think of it as a surgical operation. And think of your family.”
Johnny Dahlquist had been thinking of his family. “Please, sir, I want to see the Commanding Officer.”
Towers frowned. “The Commodore is not available. As you know, I speak for him. See me again-after lunch.”
The Commodore was decidedly not available; the Commodore was dead. But Johnny did not know that.
Dahlquist walked back to the messroom, bought cigarettes, sat down and had a smoke. He got up, crushed out the butt, and headed for the Base’s west airlock. There he got into his space suit and went to the lockmaster. “Open her up, Smitty.”
The marine looked surprised. “Can’t let anyone out on the surface without word from Colonel Towers, sir. Hadn’t you heard?”
“Oh, yes! Give me your order book.” Dahlquist took it, wrote a pass for himself, and signed it “by direction of Colonel Towers.” He added, “Better call the Executive Officer and check it.”
The lockmaster read it and stuck the book in his pocket. “Oh, no, Lieutenant. Your word’s good.”
“Hate to disturb the Executive Officer, eh? Don’t blame you.” He stepped in, closed the inner door, and waited for the air to be sucked out.
Out on the Moon’s surface he blinked at the light and hurried to the track-rocket terminus; a car was waiting. He squeezed in, pulled down the hood, and punched the starting button. The rocket car flung itself at the hills dived through and came out on a plain studded with projectile rockets, like candles on a cake. Quickly it dived into a second tunnel through more hills. There was a stomach-wrenching deceleration and the car stopped at the underground atom-bomb armory.
As Dahlquist climbed out he switched on his walkie-talkie. The space-suited guard at the entrance came to port-arms. Dahlquist said, “Morning, Lopez,” and walked by him to the airlock. He pulled it open. . .
The guard motioned him back. “Hey! Nobody goes in without the Executive Officer’s say-so.” He shifted his gun, fumbled in his pouch and got out a paper. “Read it, Lieutenant.”
Dahlquist waved it away. “I drafted that order myself. You read it; you’ve misinterpreted it.”
“I don’t see how, Lieutenant.”
Dahlquist snatched the paper, glanced at it, then pointed to a line. “See? ‘-except persons specifically designated by the Executive Officer.’ That’s the bomb officers, Major Morgan and me.”
The guard looked worried. Dahlquist said, “Damn it, look up ‘specifically designated’ – it’s under ‘Bomb Room, Security, Procedure for’ in your standing orders. Don’t tell me you left them in the barracks!”
“Oh, no, sir! I’ve got ’em.” The guard reached into his pouch. Dahlquist gave him back the sheet; the guard took it, hesitated, then leaned his weapon against his hip, shifted the paper to his left hand, and dug into his pouch with his right.
Dahlquist grabbed the gun, shoved it between the guard’s legs, and jerked. He threw the weapon away and ducked into the airlock. As he slammed the door he saw the guard struggling to his feet and reaching for his side arm. He dogged the outer door shut and felt a tingle in his fingers as a slug struck the door.
He flung himself at the inner door, jerked the spill lever, rushed back to the outer door and hung his weight on the handle. At once he could feel it stir. The guard was lifting up; the lieutenant was pulling down, with only his low Moon weight to anchor him. Slowly the handle raised before his eyes.
Air from the bomb room rushed into the lock through the spill valve. Dahlquist felt his space suit settle on his body as the pressure in the lock began to equal the pressure in the suit. He quit straining and let the guard raise the handle. It did not matter; thirteen tons of air pressure now held the door closed.
He latched open the inner door to the bomb room, so that it could not swing shut. As long as it was open, the airlock could not operate; no one could enter.