Joe has been a great help, though he still knows no more than the Russians. He’s told me what wonderfully developed nervous systems squids possess, and has explained how some of them can change their appearance in a flash through instantaneous three-colour printing, thanks to the extraordinary network of ‘chromophores’ covering their bodies. Presumably this evolved for camouflage; but it seems natural—even inevitable—that it should develop into a communication system.
But there’s one thing that worries Joe.
‘What were they
doing
around the grid?’ he keeps asking me plaintively. ‘They’re cold-blooded invertebrates. You’d expect them to dislike heat as much as they object to light.’
That puzzles Joe; but it doesn’t puzzle me. Indeed, I think it’s the key to the whole mystery.
Those squids, I’m now certain, are in Trinco Deep for the same reason that there are men at the South Pole—or on the Moon. Pure scientific curiosity has drawn them from their icy home, to investigate this geyser of hot water welling from the sides of the canyon. Here is a strange and inexplicable phenomenon—possibly one that menaces their way of life. So they have summoned their giant cousin (servant? slave!) to bring them a sample for study. I cannot believe that they have a hope of understanding it; after all, no scientist on earth could have done so as little as a century ago. But they are trying; and that is what matters.
Tomorrow, we begin our countermeasures. I go back into Trinco Deep to fix the great lights that Shapiro hopes will keep the squids at bay. But how long will that ruse work, if intelligence is dawning in the deep?
As I dictate this, I’m sitting here below the ancient battlements of Fort Frederick, watching the Moon come up over the Indian Ocean. If everything goes well, this will serve as the opening of the book that Joe has been badgering me to write. If it doesn’t—then hello, Joe, I’m talking to
you
now. Please edit this for publication, in any way you think fit, and my apologies to you and Lev for not giving you all the facts before. Now you’ll understand why.
Whatever happens, please remember this: they are beautiful, wonderful creatures; try to come to terms with them if you can.
To: Ministry of Power, Moscow
From: Lev Shapiro, Chief Engineer, Trincomalee Thermoelectric Power Project
Herewith the complete transcript of the tape recording found among Herr Klaus Muller’s effects after his last dive. We are much indebted to Mr Joe Watkins, of
Time
, for assistance on several points.
You will recall that Herr Muller’s last intelligible message was directed to Mr Watkins and ran as follows: ‘Joe! You were right about Melville! The thing is absolutely gigan—’
First published in
This Week
, 11 August, 1963, as ‘The Secret of the Men in the Moon’
Collected in
The Wind from the Sun
Henry Cooper had been on the Moon for almost two weeks before he discovered that something was wrong. At first it was only an ill-defined suspicion, the sort of hunch that a hardheaded science reporter would not take too seriously. He had come here, after all, at the United Nations Space Administration’s own request. UNSA had always been hot on public relations—especially just before budget time, when an overcrowded world was screaming for more roads and schools and sea farms, and complaining about the billions being poured into space.
So here he was, doing the lunar circuit for the second time, and beaming back two thousand words of copy a day. Although the novelty had worn off, there still remained the wonder and mystery of a world as big as Africa, thoroughly mapped, yet almost completely unexplored. A stone’s throw away from the pressure domes, the labs, the spaceports, was a yawning emptiness that would challenge men for centuries to come.
Some parts of the Moon were almost too familiar, of course. Who had not seen that dusty scar in the Mare Imbrium, with its gleaming metal pylon and the plaque that announced in the three official languages of Earth:
ON THIS SPOT
AT 2001 UT
13 SEPTEMBER 1959
THE FIRST MAN-MADE OBJECT REACHED ANOTHER WORLD
Cooper had visited the grave of Lunik II—and the more famous tomb of the men who had come after it. But these things belonged to the past; already, like Columbus and the Wright brothers, they were receding into history. What concerned him now was the future.
When he had landed at Archimedes Spaceport, the Chief Administrator had been obviously glad to see him, and had shown a personal interest in his tour. Transportation, accommodation, and official guide were all arranged. He could go anywhere he liked, ask any questions he pleased. UNSA trusted him, for his stories had always been accurate, his attitude friendly. Yet the tour had gone sour; he did not know why, but he was going to find out.
He reached for the phone and said: ‘Operator? Please get me the Police Department. I want to speak to the Inspector General.’
Presumably Chandra Coomaraswamy possessed a uniform, but Cooper had never seen him wearing it. They met, as arranged, at the entrance to the little park that was Plato City’s chief pride and joy. At this time in the morning of the artificial twenty-four-hour ‘day’ it was almost deserted, and they could talk without interruption.
As they walked along the narrow gravel paths, they chatted about old times, the friends they had known at college together, the latest developments in interplanetary politics. They had reached the middle of the park, under the exact centre of the great blue-painted dome, when Cooper came to the point.
‘You know everything that’s happening on the Moon, Chandra,’ he said. ‘And you know that I’m here to do a series for UNSA—hope to make a book out of it when I get back to Earth. So why should people be trying to hide things from me?’
It was impossible to hurry Chandra. He always took his time to answer questions, and his few words escaped with difficulty around the stem of his hand-carved Bavarian pipe.
‘What people?’ he asked at length.
‘You’ve really no idea?’
The Inspector General shook his head.
‘Not the faintest,’ he answered; and Cooper knew that he was telling the truth. Chandra might be silent, but he would not lie.
‘I was afraid you’d say that. Well, if you don’t know any more than I do, here’s the only clue I have—and it frightens me. Medical Research is trying to keep me at arm’s length.’
‘Hmm,’ replied Chandra, taking his pipe from his mouth and looking at it thoughtfully.
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘You haven’t given me much to work on. Remember, I’m only a cop: I lack your vivid journalistic imagination.’
‘All I can tell you is that the higher I get in Medical Research, the colder the atmosphere becomes. Last time I was here, everyone was very friendly, and gave me some fine stories. But now, I can’t even meet the Director. He’s always too busy, or on the other side of the Moon. Anyway, what sort of man is he?’
‘Dr Hastings? Prickly little character. Very competent, but not easy to work with.’
‘What could he be trying to hide?’
‘Knowing you, I’m sure you have some interesting theories.’
‘Oh, I thought of narcotics, and fraud, and political conspiracies—but they don’t make sense, in these days. So what’s left scares the hell out of me.’
Chandra’s eyebrows signalled a silent question mark.
‘Interplanetary plague,’ said Cooper bluntly.
‘I thought that was impossible.’
‘Yes—I’ve written articles myself proving that the life forms on other planets have such alien chemistries that they can’t react with us, and that all our microbes and bugs took millions of years to adapt to our bodies. But I’ve always wondered if it was true. Suppose a ship has come back from Mars, say, with something
really
vicious—and the doctors can’t cope with it?’
There was a long silence. Then Chandra said: ‘I’ll start investigating.
I
don’t like it either, for here’s an item you probably don’t know. There were three nervous breakdowns in the Medical Division last month—and that’s very, very unusual.’
He glanced at his watch, then at the false sky, which seemed so distant, yet which was only two hundred feet above their heads.
‘We’d better get moving,’ he said. ‘The morning shower’s due in five minutes.’
The call came two weeks later, in the middle of the night—the real lunar night. By Plato City time, it was Sunday morning.
‘Henry? Chandra here. Can you meet me in half an hour at air lock five? Good—I’ll see you.’
This was it, Cooper knew. Air lock five meant that they were going outside the dome. Chandra had found something.
The presence of the police driver restricted conversation as the tractor moved away from the city along the road roughly bulldozed across the ash and pumice. Low in the south, Earth was almost full, casting a brilliant blue-green light over the infernal landscape. However hard one tried. Cooper told himself, it was difficult to make the Moon appear glamorous. But nature guards her greatest secrets well; to such places men must come to find them.
The multiple domes of the city dropped below the sharply curved horizon. Presently, the tractor turned aside from the main road to follow a scarcely visible trail. Ten minutes later, Cooper saw a single glittering hemisphere ahead of them, standing on an isolated ridge of rock. Another vehicle, bearing a red cross, was parked beside the entrance. It seemed that they were not the only visitors.
Nor were they unexpected. As they drew up to the dome, the flexible tube of the air-lock coupling groped out toward them and snapped into place against their tractor’s outer hull. There was a brief hissing as pressure equalised. Then Cooper followed Chandra into the building.
The air-lock operator led them along curving corridors and radial passageways toward the centre of the dome. Sometimes they caught glimpses of laboratories, scientific instruments, computers—all perfectly ordinary, and all deserted on this Sunday morning. They must have reached the heart of the building, Cooper told himself when their guide ushered them into a large circular chamber and shut the door softly behind them.
It was a small zoo. All around them were cages, tanks, jars containing a wide selection of the fauna and flora of Earth. Waiting at its centre was a short, grey-haired man, looking very worried, and very unhappy.
‘Dr Hastings,’ said Coomaraswamy, ‘meet Mr Cooper.’ The Inspector General turned to his companion and added, ‘I’ve convinced the Doctor that there’s only one way to keep you quiet—and that’s to tell you everything.’
‘Frankly,’ said Hastings, ‘I’m not sure if I give a damn any more.’ His voice was unsteady, barely under control, and Cooper thought, Hello! There’s another breakdown on the way.
The scientist wasted no time on such formalities as shaking hands. He walked to one of the cages, took out a small bundle of fur, and held it toward Cooper.
‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Of course. A hamster—the commonest lab animal.’
‘Yes,’ said Hastings. ‘A perfectly ordinary golden hamster. Except that this one is five years old—like all the others in this cage.’
‘Well? What’s odd about that?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all… except for the trifling fact that hamsters live for only two years. And we have some here that are getting on for ten.’
For a moment no one spoke; but the room was not silent. It was full of rustlings and slitherings and scratchings, of faint whimpers and tiny animal cries. Then Cooper whispered: ‘My God—you’ve found a way of prolonging life!’
‘No,’ retorted Hastings. ‘We’ve not found it. The Moon has given it to us… as we might have expected, if we’d looked in front of our noses.’
He seemed to have gained control over his emotions—as if he was once more the pure scientist, fascinated by a discovery for its own sake and heedless of its implications.
‘On Earth,’ he said, ‘we spend our whole lives fighting gravity. It wears down our muscles, pulls our stomachs out of shape. In seventy years, how many tons of blood does the heart lift through how many miles? And all that work, all that strain is reduced to a sixth here on the Moon, where a one-hundred-and-eighty-pound human weighs only thirty pounds.’
‘I see,’ said Cooper slowly. ‘Ten years for a hamster—and how long for a man?’
‘It’s not a simple law,’ answered Hastings. ‘It varies with the size and the species. Even a month ago, we weren’t certain. But now we’re quite sure of this: on the Moon, the span of human life will be at least two hundred years.’
‘And you’ve been trying to keep it secret!’
‘You fool! Don’t you understand?’
‘Take it easy, Doctor—take it easy,’ said Chandra softly.
With an obvious effort of will, Hastings got control of himself again. He began to speak with such icy calm that his words sank like freezing raindrops into Cooper’s mind.
‘Think of them up there,’ he said, pointing to the roof, to the invisible Earth, whose looming presence no one on the Moon could ever forget. ‘Six billion of them, packing all the continents to the edges—and now crowding over into the sea beds. And here’—he pointed to the ground—‘only a hundred thousand of
us
, on an almost empty world. But a world where we need miracles of technology and engineering merely to exist, where a man with an IQ of only a hundred and fifty can’t even get a job.
‘And now we find that we can live for two hundred years. Imagine how they’re going to react to
that
news! This is your problem now, Mister Journalist; you’ve asked for it, and you’ve got it. Tell me this, please—I’d really be interested to know—
just how are you going to break it to them
?’
He waited, and waited. Cooper opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to think of anything to say.
In the far corner of the room, a baby monkey started to cry.
First published in
Playboy
, January 1964
Collected in
The Wind from the Sun
At 0150 GMT on December 1, 1975, every telephone in the world started to ring.