"As you're standing there, Paddy."
"And Doctor Mansfield—Professor Warner, do you trust Doctor Mansfield's figuring?"
"There's no man in the United States better qualified to make such an estimate. That's the truth, Paddy."
"Well, then—" Hughes turned toward where his employer sat nodding over the cash register on the restaurant side of the room and whistled loudly between his teeth. "Schreiber! Come take the bar." He started stripping off his apron.
"Hey!" said Warner, "where you going? I ordered a Manhattan."
"Mix it yourself," said Hughes. "I've quit." He reached for his hat with one hand, his coat with the other, and then he was out the door.
Forty seconds later he was on an uptown express; he got off at 34th Street and three minutes thereafter he was buying a ticket, west. It was ten minutes later that he felt the train start to roll under him, headed out of the city.
But it was less than an hour later when his misgivings set in. Had he been too hasty? Professor Warner was a fine man, to be sure, but given to his little jokes, now and again. Had he been taken in by a carefully contrived hoax? Had Warner said to his friend, we'll have some fun and scare the living daylights out of the old Irishman?
Nor had he made any arrangements for someone to feed Sad Sack. The cat had a weak stomach, he was certain, and no one else gave the matter any attention at all. And Molly's grave—Wednesday was his day to do his gardening there. Of course Father Nelson would see that it was watered, just for kindness' sake, but still—
When the train paused at Princeton Junction he slipped off and sought out a telephone. He had in mind what he meant to say if he was able to reach Professor Warner—a good chance, he thought, for considering the hour the gentlemen probably stayed on for a steak. Professor Warner, he would say, you've had your fun and a fine joke it was as I would be the first to say and to buy a drink on it, but tell me—man to man—was there anything to what you and your friend was telling me? That would settle it, he thought.
The call went through promptly and he heard Schreiber's irritated voice. "Hello," he said.
The line went dead. He jiggled the hook. The operator answered, "One moment, please—" then, "This is the Princeton operator. Is this the party with the call to New York?"
"Yes. I—"
"There has been a temporary interruption in service. Will you hang up and try again in a few minutes, please?"
"But I was just talking—"
"Will you hang up and try again in a few minutes, puh
lease?
"
He heard the shouting as he left the booth. As he got outdoors he could see the great, gloriously beautiful, gold and purple mushroom still mounting over where had been the City of New York.
This story was written twenty-one years before Dr. Neil Armstrong took "one short step for a man, a giant leap for mankind"—but in all important essentials it has not (yet) become dated. True, we do not know that formations such as "morning glories" exist on Luna and we do not know that there are areas where footgear midway between skis and snowshoes would be useful. But the Lunar surface is about equal in area to Africa; a dozen men have explored an area smaller than Capetown for a total of a few days. We will still be exploring Luna and finding new wonders there when the first interstellar explorers return from Proxima Centauri or Tau Ceti.
This story is compatible with the so-called "Future History" stories. It is also part of my continuing post-War-II attempt to leave the SF-pulp field and spread out. I never left the genre pulps entirely, as it turned out to be easy to write a book-length job, then break it into three or four cliff-hangers and sell it as a pulp serial immediately before book publication. I did this with a dozen novels in the '40s and '50s. 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.
"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 SKY-HIGH 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.
"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 grippers for the top edge; thus a pleat could be taken. They fastened it with maximum pleat. "How's that?" asked Sam.
"The collar cuts my shoulders."
"It won't under pressure. If we leave slack, your head will pull out of the helmet like a cork." Sam strapped the air, water, radio, and duffel-rack backpack to Bruce's shoulders. "Pressure check, Chubby."
"We'll dress first." While Chubby and Sam dressed, Bruce located his intake and exhaust valves, the spill valve inside his collar, and the water nipple beside it. He took a drink and inspected his belt.
Sam and Bruce donned helmets. Sam switched on Bruce's walkie-talkie, clipped a blood-oxygen indicator to Bruce's ear, and locked his helmet on. "Stand by for pressure," he said, his words echoing in Bruce's helmet. Chubby hooked hose from a wall gauge to Bruce's air intake.
Bruce felt the collar lift. The air in the suit grew stuffy, the helmet fogged. At thirty pounds Chubby cut the intake, and watched the gauge. Mr. Andrews joined them, a Gargantuan helmeted figure, toting a pack six feet high. "Pressure steady, sir," Chubby reported.
Sam hooked up Bruce's air supply. "Open your intake and kick your chin valve before you smother," he ordered. Bruce complied. The stale air rushed out and the helmet cleared. Sam adjusted Bruce's valves. "Watch that needle," he ordered, pointing to the blood-oxygen dial on Bruce's belt. "Keep your mix so that reads steady in the white without using your chin valve."
"I know."
"So I'll say it again. Keep that needle out of the red, or you'll explain it to Saint Peter."
The Scoutmaster asked, "What load are you giving him?"
"Oh," replied Sam, "just enough to steady him—say three hundred pounds, total."
Bruce figured—at one-sixth gravity that meant fifty pounds weight including himself, his suit, and his pack. "I'll carry my full share," he objected.
"We'll decide what's best for you," the Scoutmaster snapped. "Hurry up; the troop is ready." He left.
Sam switched off his radio and touched helmets. "Forget it," he said quietly. "The Old Man is edgy at the start of a hike." They loaded Bruce rapidly—reserve air and water bottles, a carton of grub, short, wide skis and ski poles—then hung him with field gear, first-aid kit, prospector's hammer, two climbing ropes, a pouch of pitons and snap rings, flashlight, knife. The Moon Scouts loaded up; Sam called, "Come on!"
Mr. Andrews handed the lockmaster a list and stepped inside; the three Scouts followed. Bruce felt his suit expand as the air sucked back into the underground city. A light blinked green; Mr. Andrews opened the outer door and Bruce stared across the airless lunar plain.
It dazzled him. The plain was bright under a blazing Sun. The distant needle-sharp hills seemed painted in colors too flat and harsh. He looked at the sky to rest his eyes.
It made him dizzy. He had never seen a whole skyful of stars undimmed by air. The sky was blacker than black, crowded with hard, diamond lights.
"Route march!" the Scoutmaster's voice rang in his helmet. "Heel and toe. Jack Wills out as pathfinder." A boy left the group in long, floating strides, fifteen feet at a bound. He stopped a hundred yards ahead; the troop formed single column fifty yards behind him. The Pathfinder raised his arm, swung it down, and the troop moved out.
Mr. Andrews and a Scout joined Sam and Bruce. "Speedy will help you," he told Sam, "until Bruce gets his legs. Move him along. We can't heel-and-toe and still make our mileage."
"We'll move him."
"Even if we have to carry him," added Speedy.
The Scoutmaster overtook the troop in long leaps. Bruce wanted to follow. It looked easy—like flying. He had not liked the crack about carrying him. But Sam grasped him by his left belt grip while Speedy seized the one on his right. "Here we go," Sam warned. "Feet on the ground and try to swing in with us."
Bruce started off confidently. He felt that three days of low gravity in the corridors of Luna City had given him his "legs"; being taught to walk, like a baby, was just hazing.
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.
"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.