Blake took his time crossing the river. He made a couple of lazy circuits around St. Germain des Pres before he returned to the rue Bonaparte and mounted the stairs to the offices of Editions Lequeu. He rapped twice, sharply.
Blake twisted the handle and walked into the airy room. Lequeu watched him from behind his desk, elegant as ever in a light blue polo short and linen slacks. Lequeu seemed distracted. His eyes were focusing on something outside the window.
Blake lifted his sweat-stained shirt and carefully pulled the papyrus from its holster. Lequeu made no move in his direction so Blake stepped forward and laid the scroll upon Lequeu’s desk with as much ceremony and decorum as he could muster.
He glanced down and began to recite: “
It is mighty pharoah’s wish that his scribe set down the conversation of the veiled god-messengers . . . to do him honor. In the morning, while the warmth of Re stimulated our hearts to reason, the veiled god-messengers . . . from the home of Re . . . the gra cious invitation of pharaoh approached his divine person, bringing gifts of god-metal and fine cloth, and oil and wine in great jars of glass, clear as water and hard as basalt
–this part is rather broken up–
at the gracious invitation of pharaoh . . . beyond the pillars of the sky. And they demonstrated with many demonstrations of the surveyor’s art . . . stars steered by . . . journey to do honor to pharaoh
. . . and so forth and so on. It is the true papyrus,” Lequeu said. “Take it. Go.”
“I was certain that my faith in you was not misplaced,” said Lequeu, looking straight at him for the very first time. “But then no one possessed of your many and various fields of expertise could have gone wrong. Eh, Monsieur Blake Redfield?”
Someone else had come into the room as Catherine had left. Blake turned. Pierre, of course, hulking and impassive. There were several maneuvers Blake could have used to resist the inevitable, but he thought it better to save his strength in hopes of better odds.
Blake knew the place well; he’d studied it in detail when he was living here. But he’d never thought to see the inside of this room again, and he knew that this time he would not be getting out until they decided to let him out.
Ninety percent of the way from Earth to the moon, at the L-1 transfer station, an agronomist named Clifford Leyland was beginning the final leg of his trip from the L-5 space settlement down to Farside Base. Cliff had one last stop before he could board the automated shuttle that would take him to the moon’s surface.
Outside the station’s docking bay there was a little booth, big enough for one person at a time. You went in there and took your clothes off and let the sensors sniff you and poke you and snap pictures of you in about four different wavelengths of radiation. Meanwhile you blew into the tube, a gas chromatograph mass spectrometer. The whole thing, not counting the time it took you to get undressed, lasted about five seconds. If you were clean, they let you put your spacesuit back on.
Drugs were a problem on L-1. Not a health problem but an administrative problem. Eighty per cent of all travellers to and from the moon went through the L-1 transfer station. So did half the freight. Drugs were very popular on the moon, especially among miners and the radiotelescope technicians stationed at Farside Base. Boredom had something to do with it. As a British wag once suggested–and it was as true of the moon’s ice mines as it was of English coal mines–if you were searching for a word to describe the conversation that went on down in the mines,
boring
would spring to your lips.
The top ten on the moon’s hit parade of drugs constantly changed as newer and more clever designs for inducing euphoria in the suggestible human brain were invented by free lance chemists. The space settlement at L-5 had taken a commanding lead in the invention and manufacture of homebrew chemicals, partly because of local demand and partly because there was only one bottleneck between L-5 and the moon, L-1, whereas anything shipped from Earth had to make two or more transfers.
As for the authorities at Farside and Cayley, the major moon bases, there were some who said that they were less than diligent in policing the traffic. It was argued, off the record, that some illicit substances increased productivity, at least in the short run, and certainly stimulated the local economy–and how many people did they really harm? So the burden of enforcement fell on the security staff at L-1.
It was a staff of one, a man named Brick. He tended to be irritable, and today he was suffering from lack of sleep. “Go on through,” he muttered to Cliff, and waved him past security check without bothering to look at the scans. Cliff, who’d made frequent trips to and from L-5 in the last few months, had always been clean.
“You are Cliff?” she asked. “I’m Katrina. I’m glad to be meeting you–if you will excuse me just a moment.” Katrina had just been through the inspection booth and was still getting dressed. She didn’t bother to turn away as Cliff hastily struggled to get into his trousers and shirt. She took her time closing the seam of her coveralls over her own bare skin, then thrust out her hand and smiled.
Most men would have been delighted at their first sight of Katrina Balakian–she was a tall, leggy blonde with arresting gray eyes that twinkled with mischief–but she made Cliff instantly nervous. It was not only that she was an inch taller than the slight Englishman; it had more to do with the fact that Cliff had been away from his wife too long, and that the glimpse of Katrina’s tan skin, that frank gaze of hers, were an unexpected challenge to his conscience. He was barely able to mumble the appropriate pleasantries as they climbed into the little capsule and strapped themselves down.
Launch came minutes later, and for thirty hours their capsule fell toward the moon in a long, smooth parabola. As it neared the end of its journey Cliff climbed out of the acceleration couch in which he’d spent most of his time since leaving L-1, sound asleep. Katrina was drowsily stirring in her couch.
Their sleep had been aided by prescription, for it seemed that only self-administered medication was objectionable to the authorities; drugging space travellers was standard practice, being ostensibly for their own good.
“This part I always hate,” said his colleague, lying rigid in her couch, her eyes now wide open. The two of them and their baggage took up most of the space in the capsule, though it was nominally designed to accommodate up to three passengers. “I watched once. It starts coming up fast like a big mud pie in the face. Always I’m sure we are going to miss the base.”
A visual-rules shuttle jockey trying to see his way to a landing on the moon might do all right on the Nearside, whose great dark plains and twisted, cratered uplands had long since imprinted an indelible image on the human memory, but the Farside was a featureless maze to all but the most experienced pilots. Farside had spectacular craters, to be sure, but they were more or less evenly scattered over the hemisphere, and all the space between was filled with other craters, craters within craters, right down to the limit of visibility.
This was Cliff’s sixth trip to the lunar surface in the past half year, and for the first time he managed to spot his destination before the automatic shuttle put him right on top of it. “I can see Mount Tereshkova now. On the horizon, just to the left.”
It was near the end of a long lunar day. At night Farside Base’s lights would have given it away; by day, unless the sun glinted off the field of metal sunflowers that was the telescope antenna farm, or the row upon row of solar panels that provided most of the power for the base, Farside was almost lost in a monotony of craters. Yet the base was inside one of the few recognizable landmarks in the terrain, the big lava-filled, mountain-ringed basin known as the Mare Moscoviense, the Sea of Moscow, whose existence was first hinted at in the smudged photos returned to Earth in 1959 by
Luna
3. The base itself lay against the mountain walls to the west of the 200-kilometer-wide dark circular plain, at twenty-eight degrees north latitude and 156 degrees west longitude.
The other major outpost on the moon, Cayley Base, was near the dead center of the Nearside. In the early days its equatorial location had been vital for saving precious fuel; most traffic in the Earth-moon system still lay on the plane that sliced through both bodies and extended to the great space settlements. Fifty years earlier Cayley Base had been built as an open-pit mine. The miners dug the metal-rich lunar dirt, compacted it into blocks, then shot it off the moon with an electromagnetic catapult to a transfer station at L-2 behind the moon and thence to the growing space settlement at L-5.
Farside Base was different, and its off-center position on the back of the moon was a compromise between competing demands. The dark lava of the floor of Mare Moscoviense concealed caves of frozen water–ice mines–the moon’s most precious resource. The high ringwalls of the huge crater and the bulk of the moon itself isolated the base from radio pollution in near-Earth space, and a hundred radio telescopes lifted their dishes toward the uncluttered sky in an ongoing search for extraterres-trial intelligence.
As Cliff felt the solid thump of retrorockets under his feet, Katrina squealed, a little girl’s squeal that issued incongruously from her Amazon’s body, and at that moment they both felt their weight for the first time in days. The automated capsule slowed as it swept out over the plain, homing on the base. Cliff stayed on his feet, peering out the window.
Farside’s most noticeable feature was the circular array of 200-meter radiotelescope dishes, more than a hundred of them covering thirty square kilometers of crater floor. Toward the edge of this perfect circle ran a tangent line, the base’s forty-kilometer electromagnetic catapult; Katrina and Cliff were flying almost parallel to the launcher as they came in. Two white points marked the domes that were the inhabited center of the base, and beside them was the landing field. Beyond the field stretched a square plain of solar panels.
Farside’s launcher had been built to throw entire space vehicles off the moon, not just ten-kilogram blocks of dirt–vehicles like the one in which Cliff and Katrina rode, capsules big enough to squeeze in three people with baggage and life-support or, stripped, a tonne of freight. After a lazy two-day trip to L-1, the capsules were outfitted with strap-on fuel tanks and sent back, braking their fall by burning abundant oxygen from the moon with rarer, more expensive hydrogen.
As the retrorocket lowered them onto the bare dirt landing pad, their cabin radio crackled: “Unit forty-two, that’s Leyland and Balakian, right? The crummy’s held up twenty minutes, Leyland, so you may as well plug into the bulkhead unit and save your suit O-two. Balakian, that tractor on the pad is for you.”
“Rice shoots. L-5’s best low-gee strain. Since the arrival of the new contingent from China, seems there’s been an increased demand.”
A yellow caution light came on, warning them to seal their helmets. The capsule’s simple design wasted nothing on an airlock; when both passengers had sealed their helmets, Katrina keyed the computer and a pump pulled the cabin air into holding bottles. When the vacuum inside was as good as it could get, the little pressure hatch sprang open. Katrina squeezed through the circular hatch and Cliff slipped through after her.