“Meanwhile your asteroid recedes, each daycycle harder and more expensive to reach, until it may well be lost forever.” Beynac’s rumble ascended to a roar. He sprang to his feet. “No! Bloody hell, no!” He shook a fist aloft, bounded to the wall and back, stood glaring around.
“You can apply for a research grant,” Rydberg began.
“We can agitate for it,” Dagny said.
She was surprised when Jinann spoke. She had known the girl shared the bitterness of her brothers. “If we but had a ship of our own to go! Yet nay, never have they licensed us more than a few orbiters. Fear they we might smash down on Hiroshima?”
Well, how much did their parents know of anything in the breasts of Lunarian children?
“Getting approval would very likely take too long,” Rydberg went on. “If nothing else, suitable robots are booked far in advance. That includes those not yet made and programmed. A human or two would have to go along in any event, to make the quick decisions when transmission lag is so great. I think you should first try if you can charter a vessel for a manned expedition. Fireball has three or four to spare, if you can pay.”
A tingle went along Dagny’s nerves. “Brandir has plenty of money these daycycles. We could ask him.” For the honor, or the aggrandizement, of his house and of Luna, he might be willing to lay some out. And maybe for love of his father?
Rydberg, her Lars, said soberly, because he disliked dramatics, “Besides the scientists, a qualified crew would be necessary. I could arrange it, and be the captain myself. That is if this is possible at all, which I do not promise.”
“And I will be the chief geologist,” Beynac said.
They stared at him. “What?” Rydberg exclaimed and, “You have won enough, Dada,” Jinann protested in a voice she had not used for well-nigh two decades.
Dagny sat mute, remembering certain verses.
What is a woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
Standing above them, her ‘Mond looked into her eyes and said, “Yes, I.” Wake up, man. Up! Time’s a-wasting.”
Dreams clung. Kenmuir struggled with them. They broke apart as he felt another quake. He opened his eyes. Aleka hunkered by the pallet, shaking his shoulder.
“C’mon, sleepyhead,” she urged. “You’ve had a few hours. We’ve got heavy seas to weather.”
He blinked. The shelter arched faintly mother-of-pearl, enclosing him in its small dome. The groundbeneath was hard and cracked, the .air hot and mummy-dry. Seas?
Memory returned. It felt almost like another dream, the long drive from Iscah’s place through night, he and she silent, fitfully dozing, till they reached—here— and after a few mumbled words with somebody he stumbled into this refuge. She’d joined him, nearby lay her own mattress and bedding, but now she was on her feet and outrageously refreshed.
He peered at his informant. The hour was 1310. He tried to whistle, but was too thirsty. Bit by bit, he climbed erect. He barely managed to fold a blanket around his waist. Aleka laughed. “Good boy,” she said. “You knew you could do it if you tried.”
“What’s the program?” he croaked.
“Lunch with the padre. Be intelligent, or at least polite. I’ve fairly well got him talked over, but he wants to meet you before he agrees to anything. Understandable.” Aleka cocked her head and smiled. “All right, I’ll have mercy and let you clean up.” She turned, parted the doorflap, and disappeared from him.
Padre? he thought vaguely. Oh, yes. Between them, Aleka and the two metamorphs had decided to send him and her to a Drylander camp—communications available—and, yes, this particular tribe, or whatever the word was, were Biocatholics. He’d once seen a documentary on that sect. Its members were few, sparsely scattered, intensely religious—what other force could drive their way of life?—but by no means retrograde. He’d better make a good impression.
A curtain hung in front of a portable washstand and sanitor. He noted the outlets by which they could be attached to a water reclamation unit. Losses to anything but evaporation and accidental spills must be rare. No, perspiration surely dissipated a lot. As quickly as possible, he availed himself, ending with a washcloth over his face and body. A comb hung on a chain. His last dose of beard inhibitor wouldn’t wear off for a while yet. The clothes into which he scrambled had gotten a little grubby, but there was no help for that.