Текст книги "Bouncing Off the Moon"

Автор книги: David Gerrold

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Anyway, it was only a hunch. Probably, it was something more mundane—like a bunch of codes—if it was anything at all. Dad said it was a decoy, but what if it wasn't. What if the smugglers thought it would be safer for the decoy to carry the McGuffin?

But even if the monkey had a quantum synchronizer or whatever inside, we'd have no way to tell just by looking at the outside of the card. And if there were some way to open it and look inside, that would be interference, and that would ruin it. So whatever it was, it was never going to be anything more than a hunch to me.

But … maybe I should think about this hunch for a bit.

Suppose we really were carrying something. It would have to be something extremelyvaluable, and the mule carrying it would have to be extremelystupid—I didn't like that part, but it made sense. A mule smart enough to know what he had would be smart enough to sell it to the highest bidder. The trick was to give it to someone who would be happy just to get a ticket offworld and who wouldn't fit the profile of a smuggler. Like a dad going to a colony with his kids. And the damn custody battle made it even better, not worse, because it was just the right kind of distraction. Smugglers didn't take their kids with them. Smugglers didn't have angry wives chasing them. And … if you had that kind of money to invest in that kind of mule, then you also had the kind of money to buy his way through customs or anywhere else.

Wasn't it convenient that Mickey was there? And his mom, the lawyer? And Judge Griffith too? And what about Alexei? Was he part of that plan too? No, he couldn't be. He didn't fit in—or did he? Who was on which side?

Or was I just being paranoid?

Could I even be sure about what Douglas said he knew? No– don't go there, Chigger. That'sreally a shortcut to lunacy.Well, we were in the right place for it. That was for sure.

Along about then, Mickey stopped us and came back to check my oxygen. "I thought so," he said. "I should have made you change tanks at our last break."

"Huh?"

"You've been muttering in my ears for the last three kilometers."

"I'm fine. See?" I flipped the readout up so I could see it. It was flashing a pretty shade of red. "See?"

"Yes, I see—that's very nice. Does the word hypoxiamean anything to you?"

"She was Socrates' wife. I think."

"Wrong." Mickey was fumbling with the front of my bubble. For some reason I couldn't focus clearly.

"Hypoxia was queen of the Amazons," he said. "The Amazons lived in Scythia on the banks of the longest river in the world. They cut off their right breasts with scythes, so as not to interfere with their sword arms. Hercules killed Hypoxia at Troy for not checking her oxygen. Here, try to focus—" He clicked his air hose to the valve in the front of his bubble. Just like I had. An oxygen-jet.

"Are we stopping somewhere?"

"Yes, we're stopping right here." He pushed himself up close to me and hooked his bubble valve to mine. I couldn't see what he did next, but I started to hear a strange hissing sound. "I'm losing air, I think. I'm hissing."

"Take a deep breath, Chigger. Again. Again. Again. Keep on breathing. That's good. Can you see me now? Look at my hand. How many fingers can you see?"

I blinked. "All of them?"

"Close enough. Look at your readout again."

I looked. "It's flashing red." And then I started to get scared—

"Relax. You're breathing on my air now. Pay attention. We're going to change tanks on your rebreather. If you can't do it, I'll do it for you. Take your hands out of your gloves and I'll reverse them inward and—"

"I can do it." My hands were shaking and I felt suddenly weak and nauseous. "You do it."

"Good boy. You know when to ask for help. Do you know how many people have died because they were too stupid or too proud to ask for help?"

"No. How many?"

"I don't know either. But it's a lot, I can tell you that."

He had his hands inside my bubble now—it looked weird to see my gloves fiddling around at my belt, unclipping hoses and changing their connections. It reminded me of the way Doug used to button me up before taking me out to play. That didn't seem so long ago—but at the same time it seemed very far away. And now it was Mickey. He was acting just like a brother.

"There. How do you feel?"

"Fine."

"Do you have a headache?"

"Uh-uh." I touched my head to see if it was still there. My hand touched something else. A furry leg. "Is there a monkey sitting on my head?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then I'm not delusional."

"But no headache?"

"No. If anything, I feel giddy. A little light-headed. Like I could fly away."

"That's not good either." Mickey reached in and fiddled with the settings on my rebreather.

"What are you doing?"

"Just making some adjustments. This should do it. There." He pulled his hands out of my gloves and disconnected our two bubbles. We were separated again. He secured his rebreather tube and looked across at me. "All right, you good now?"

"Yeah." I was fumbling my hands back into my gloves.

"You sure? I've gotta go check Douglas and Bobby—"

"I'm good." But I grabbed his hand anyway. "Mickey?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

He gave my hand a quick squeeze in return, then hurried across to Douglas.

PAYING INTENTION

After that, we were all a lot more careful.

I finally got itwhat Mickey meant.

It was about staying conscious.What some people called paying intention.

Dad once tried to tell me about this music teacher he'd had—the one who said you couldn't be a musician if you didn't practice at least three hours a day. He used to tell Dad that an excuse was not equal to a result. What you said you wanted was irrelevant; what you actually accomplished demonstrated your real intentions.

I never liked that discussion. It sounded like hard work to me and I couldn't see the reward in it. I always thought you should practice your music because you liked it, not because somebody said you had to. But I'd always listened politely, because it was always so important to Dad to give the Pay intention, this is how the world works!speech. It's not enough to pay attention,he would say, over and over. You have to pay i*n*t*e*n*t*i*o*nas well.

And there was all the rest of it too: Volume is no substitute for brains. Better to keep your trap shut and be thought a fool than to shoot yourself in the foot while it's still in your mouth. Don't burn your bridges before your chickens are hatched.

Every so often … I would realize he'd been right. He wasn't just talking to prove he knew better than me. This was one of those times. Well, why hadn't I paid intention when he'd told me about paying intention? Because … it's one of those stupid things you have to bump into yourself, and hope you survive long enough to make good use of the lesson.

So I concentrated on every bounce, every hop, every skip—and wondered if this is what it had been like for Harrison "Jack" Schmitt, bouncing around on the moon and trying to collect rocks without killing himself.

And every so often, I cursed the monkey. I'd been assuming that the monkey was a good safety monitor. Obviously, it wasn't. It was supposed to beep or scream or run for help if a life was in danger—but it hadn't alerted me that I was running low on air. So obviously, it didn't include an oxygen meter—and it hadn't been paying any attention to my rate of breathing. I was already gasping for breath when Mickey figured out there was something wrong and came back to check my air. If it hadn't been for Stinky, I'd have junked the monkey right there. Except I was still wondering about those memory bars.

"Look, there it is," said Mickey.

We stopped to look. He pointed toward the horizon. It was hard to see. The dark slope downward was outlined with bright highlights—places where outcroppings stuck up into the sunlight, or worse, places where the shadows dipped away altogether, leaving patches of Lunar soil painted with a hard actinic glare. We had to squint to see anything. Even Stinky, who was still groggy from the tranquilizer, stuck his head out of Douglas's poncho and demanded to know what we were looking at.

"It's hard to make out—" Mickey admitted. "Look for a reddish glow."

"Oh, I've got it," said Douglas. "Chigger, can you see it?"

"No—" The brightness made my eyes water. We were looking at a vast downhill slope, and the horizon was farther away than I had gotten used to. And there was a lot of sunlight being reflected back at us. And … I didn't want to say it aloud, but there was something moving out there.

But if there was something there, I had to tell them. And if there wasn't anything there and I was seeing things, then I had to say something about that too. Didn't I?

"Mickey?"

"Yes, Chigger?"

"Are there mirages on the moon?"

"Well, not mirages. Not like on Earth. You need an atmosphere for those kinds of mirages. But sometimes you get optical illusions. Or even psychological illusions. Your eyes will play tricks on you. Or your mind. Why? Do you see something?"

"I thought I did."

"Where?"

"Just to the left of the reflector. Something black, running and bouncing across the bright part. Didn't you see it?"

"No. Is it still there?"

"No."

"Did it look like a bubble?"

"No. It was too thin. I only caught a quick glimpse. I don't know what it was."

"Which way was it going?"

"It was coming toward us. Almost head-on."

That brought both Mickey and Douglas to attention. They scanned the distance for long moments, punctuated only by one of them asking, "Do you see it?" And the other replying, "No, do you?"

Finally, Mickey said, "Well, if it's out there, it's in the shadows now and we're missing it. But just to be on the safe side—" He came over and checked my air again.

I started to protest that I was fine, but then I realized that Mickey was only doing what he had to do, so I shut up and waited until he finished. Douglas asked, "Is he all right?"

Mickey nodded. "As far as I can tell." To me, he said, "I'm not saying you didn't see anything, Chigger. You were right to ask. But it's not unusual after you've had hypoxia to experience visual or auditory illusions."

"Hallucinations, you mean."

"Yeah," he admitted.

For a moment, none of us said anything. We were all thinking the same thing. Was the kid with the monkey on his head going crazy? And if not—then what was out there?

"All right," said Mickey. "Let's keep going. Let's get to the reflector. Douglas?"

Douglas started hop-skipping again. I followed. Mickey brought up the rear. Douglas hadn't said much, he'd been concentrating on Stinky most of the time. But now he said, "Mickey?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think Alexei abandoned us?"

Mickey didn't answer for several bounces. I had begun to think he wasn't going to answer at all, when he said, "The thought had crossed my mind, yeah."

"You know him better than we do—"

"I don't know him that well. For all his talk, there's a lot he doesn't say. 'I make big deal, I make lots of money, I am embarrassed I make so much money, you will pick up check, da?All my money is tied up in cash, da?'" Mickey mimicked his Russian friend perfectly. "He's always got a deal going somewhere. But nobody ever knows what his deals are. I suppose that's a good thing. What you don't know you can't tell the marshals."

We bounced and skipped in silence for a while, punctuated only by occasional soft grunts. After a while, Mickey added, "But it's not like Alexei to endanger someone's life. Loonies don't do that. They believe that life is sacred everywhere. The greatest crime on Luna is to disrespect life. And Alexei is completely Loonie. He wouldn't do it. He couldn't."

More silence, more bouncing. I checked my readouts. They were green. I checked them again. This time I looked at the numbers. I checked them a third time and mouthed the numbers as I read them—reminding myself what was optimal. Pay intention.

Douglas broke the silence. "So you think he's dead."

"We didn't find a body."

"You didn't answer the question."

"I don't know." And then he added, "But it's the only thing I can think of that makes sense … "

I disagreed. I could think of something else that made sense. But I didn't want to say it aloud. Not yet. I needed to think some more. As long as I didn't get distracted again—

I could see the reflector clearly now. It was a big silvery ball on a short spindly tripod. The whole thing had been dropped in from orbit and there were fragments of the landing pod around the base. But what caught my attention was the way the reflector had a sparkly-flickery look—all different colors. It was even more spooky because the whole thing was in shadow, so where were the flickers coming from?

I pointed it out to Mickey. He explained, "Lasers from all over the system. Everyone tunes their beams to a different color, that's why it looks like a rainbow, and everyone targets on Luna. It's a convenient landmark, and there's no atmosphere to distort the beams. It's kind of like Greenwich mean time, you know what that is? It's a reference point against which all other clocks are set. Well, Luna is like that too. It's the surveyor's post for everyone in the solar system to measure distances from. Accurate computations of distance are essential for space travel."

"Oh, yeah. That makes sense."

"We're almost there. Do you want to take a meal break? We can even go in the inflatable for a bit." It was still bouncing along behind him.

I opened my mouth to say yes, then stopped. "What's that—?" I pointed.

"What's what?" And then he saw it too.

It was a bubble suit, like ours. An emptybubble suit. Half-inflated. As if the person wearing it had taken it off and skipped away into the arid dark.

It was Alexei'sbubble suit.

REFLECTIONS

My first thought was, so that answers that question.

My second thought was, No, it doesn't. Where's the body?

How do you get out of a bubble suit and just walk away?

You don't.

So where was Alexei?

The question was more puzzling than ever.

And why was his suit here?How did it get here from there?Who else was here? I glanced around nervously. There could be an entire army hiding just behind the horizon. We'd have no way of knowing.

Mickey and Douglas were just as disconcerted as I was. Maybe even more so. Because they knew all the stuff I hadn't even thought of—so they probably had even more questions.

We all climbed into the inflatable to talk about it. Once inside, we took off our bubble suits, and Mickey equalized the oxygen in all our tanks, something he'd been wanting to do ever since I burned off thirty minutes of breathing to stop myself on the zip line.

We pushed back the hoods of our ponchos, took off our goggles, and sipped at our water bottles. I took the monkey off my head and set it aside. We nibbled at our inedible MREs, we inhaled deeply—the air in the inflatable was stale, but it was fresher than the air in the bubble suits—we used our toilet bags, and we talked about calling for rescue.

We all knew the arguments. What we were doing was dangerous. Stupid. Foolhardy. Probably unnecessary. I was posthypoxic and hallucinating. Douglas's back was starting to hurt—even though Stinky weighed less on Luna, he still had the same mass.So even though it mostly felt like he wasn't heavy, the truth was that there was some stuff called inertia and momentum that made carrying the little monster almost as tiring as if we were still on Earth. Mickey's feelings were unreadable. He looked as if he had a lot of different things all going on at the same time. And Stinky was alternating between constipation and diarrhea, catatonia and hyperactivity—so at least one of us was normal.

It was a question of endurance. The reflector was our halfway point. Actually, it was more than halfway. It was nearly two-thirds of the way. But Alexei and Mickey had figured that in terms of sheer physical exhaustion, the last third of the Lunar hike would take us as long as the first two-thirds. As much fun as it was to go bouncing across the silvery gloom, it was very tiring too. My legs were beginning to hurt. My calves ached.

And I was scared again.

I wasn't afraid of Luna anymore. But I respected her now. I had a better sense of her dangers—and I was paying intention.

I was terrified by all the stuff I didn'tknow—especially all the stuff I didn't know that I didn't know. Alexei's empty bubble suit scared the hello out of me. What could have happened that only his empty suit would be left behind? Did something suck him right out of the plastic?

I shuddered. And shivered. And wrapped my silver poncho tight around me.

Above us, the reflector sparkled with stray bits of light—a thousand different colors, the beams of distant spaceships, other worlds and moons, asteroids, the Earth, the orbital beanstalk, L4 and L5, orbiting satellites—all their questioning fingers of light touched and bounced away, back to their origins, each one carrying a single part of the answer to the question Where am I?

You're there—7.68 godzillion angstroms away from here.And we're here—7.68 godzillion angstroms away from there.Sitting under the stars and watching the flickering radiance of your thousand lonely queries. But none of you are more alone than us—sitting here all alone in the dark.

How far would all those beams travel on their journeys here and back? How long would it take them? Just the blink of an eye—a few seconds to Earth, a few minutes to the asteroid belt. What were they all saying?

They didn't even know we were here. It was a strange feeling to see so much evidence of human life and still be so far away from it all.

We could rejoin it in a moment. All we had to do was tune our transmitters to the public bands, turn up the power, and call for help. I was ready to concede I didn't know as much as I pretended. I'd made my point, I could quit now. I'd still gotten farther than Dad ever would have. And I knew Douglas wouldn't take much convincing if he thought that Stinky or I were in danger. Mickey … I didn't know what he thought, but he looked tired and irritable and unhappy. Whatever exhilaration we had felt about being on the moon, that was gone, swamped by our exhaustion and our fear. We'd had too many close calls. The wunderstormwas over.

Mickey unhooked his transmitter from his belt. "Do we have to talk about this?" he asked. "Or are we all in agreement this time?" He looked to Douglas. Douglas shook his head. He looked to me—

That's when something outside the inflatable moved—and I screamed and leapt backward so hard I bumped into the wall and went bouncing sideways, scaring the hell out of Stinky and Douglas and Mickey, and they went bouncing every which way too—

It was a gangly black spidery thing, with a grotesque bug-eyed face, and grasping claws. It came right up to the edge of the bubble and pressed its face and hands against the plastic, peering in at us like some kind of vacuum-breathing insect. Even Stinky was shrieking—Douglas grabbed him in a restraining hug and turned him away so he couldn't see—

And then I saw the lettering above the eyes КРИСЛОВ—I couldn't read the word, the letters were all funny-looking and backwards—until I recognized them as Russian. And then Mickey was shouting, "It's Alexei! It's Alexei! Everybody shut up! Stop screaming! It's only Alexei! It's Alexei!"

By then, I'd already stopped screaming, and Alexei was already pulling himself into the inflatable, one section of the entrance tube at a time. He was careful to close and check each zipper behind him before he opened the next. He still looked scary—like a big skinny faceless thing.

Finally, he popped in through the last zipper and carefully sealed it behind himself. He pulled off the rubbery hood of his scuba suit and finally his breather tube and goggles. He was laughing so hard I wanted to punch him in the gut. How dare he scare us like that?

"Is big fright, da?Is Rock Father come to eat poor crazy terries. Scream and scream again. You are much frightened. I laugh so hard I almost choke on my air hose. You did not expect poor Alexei, did you? Is only turnabout to play fair. Alexei did not expect to find you here either. Did you not hear my messages? No, I think you did not. My transmitter failed. I could hear you, but you could not hear me. Very inconvenient, da?So you did not hear me say you should wait, I go for help. No need for rescue. I could run to Prospector's Station and signal Mr. Beagle and be back with help and air in two hours—"

"Mr. Beagle—?"

"Later. You will meet him later. But I cannot call him now. I hear you in distance—you are looking for me. Calling, da?I realize you have come down from mountain somehow. So I turn around and come back for you before you get lost."

"But your bubble suit—?" I asked.

"I could not leave it behind, Charles Dingillian, could I? I would never find it again. So I left it at reflector as signal for you that I was still alive."

"Oh," Mickey said. There was an edge to his voice. "Is that what that was?"

Alexei slapped his chest in mock-frustration. "Ah, you do not understand Self-Contained Universal Breathing Apparatus, do you? Body suit is so firm-fitting it makes airtight seal all around. Strong enough to hold body safe and tight against vacuum. Hood seals tight around goggles and earphones and breather tube. Is not as practical as bubble suit for long distances. No way to pee or poop. No way to drink or eat. Cannot even talk very well. But for emergencies or for short distances, is much easier. Is basic worksuit for Loonies."

"We're not Loonies," Douglas said.

"Maybe someday you will be," Alexei responded, very matter-of-factly. "Earth is falling apart. Luna will have to provide resources to rebuild. Luna will become seat of economic power and political authority for double-planet system of Earth-Luna. Is only logical. We have high ground of discipline and resources. Nobody gets to Luna by accident. We are a society of hard workers. Earth cannot compete with that. It makes sense that Lunatics should govern, da?"

"I think we already have enough lunatics in government," said Douglas dryly. "The old-fashioned kind."

" Da,we have our share too. But even our craziest Loonies know the rules. Everybody pays oxygen tax."

"And what happens if you don't?" asked Douglas.

"You have to stop breathing." Alexei helped himself to one of Mickey's MREs and began unwrapping it. "Nobody ever breaks law second time." He took a disgustingly large bite of something that looked like chopped brick and kept on talking while he chewed. "First I will eat, then I will use toilet bags. Then we will hurry to Prospector's Station. As long as we are this far, no need to call Mr. Beagle for help. We will catch early train, fool marshals. Huh, what is wrong—?" He blinked in surprise, looking at us, suddenly realizing. "You were planning to call for help, da?I see it in your faces. Is lucky I stop you in time—" Alexei turned to Mickey and took the transmitter out of his hands. "Listen, Mikhail,is big mistake to call for help. Everything on Earth is falling apart, so everything on Luna is shutting down. It will be much harder to hide anything—even little one's monkey. Can you go one more hour? Two? Maybe a little more than two? Prospector's Station is only four and a half klicks from here, most. Almost all downhill. Train arrives in few hours. Once we get on train, we can go anywhere."

"As cargo again?" Douglas asked. He looked angry.

"No, no, I promise. I have planned idea for disguise. Very clever, I am. I will take you wherever you want to go—even if you change mind. Must go quickly now. We have not as much air anymore. I use up too much air going and coming back and not getting anywhere."

Mickey was already whispering to his PITA and frowning at its responses.

"I vote no," said Douglas firmly.

"We don't have a choice," said Mickey.

"Huh?"

"We don't have enough air anymore. Not enough to sit and wait for a rescue. Alexei's coming back changes the whole oxygen equation. He used up most of his. Now he's on ours." He was already reaching for his bubble suit. "We have to go. Now."

"How serious is it?" asked Douglas.

"Not serious if we go now.If we stop to argue about it, it gets very serious."

Douglas looked like he wanted to say something. He looked like he wanted to say a whole bunch of somethings, but he held his tongue. "Bobby—come on, time for another piggyback ride."

"Do I gotta—?"

"Yeah, you gotta."

"Do you want me to take him?" Mickey asked. "I don't mind, really."

Douglas shook his head. "You just keep watching Chigger." The , look on his face said it all. He was very angry. And we were going to hear about this later.

RUN IN THE SUN

And then we were on our way again, bouncing and skipping and hopping and tumbling through the Lunar darkness. Alexei ran ahead in his Scuba gear, he didn't want to waste time with the bubble suit. Douglas hop-skipped behind him in that weird bouncing lope that the first Lunar astronauts had discovered as the most efficient method of moving quickly around the Lunar surface. Mickey and I brought up the rear. The inflatable bounced along behind us on a long silvery leash. We must have looked like a soap commercial—four manic bubbles chasing a frantic piece of lunatic lint.

The reflector disappeared behind us, and for a while, everything was silent again. A week ago, all I wanted was a quiet place to listen to my music; now I was beginning to resent the silence. It was too muchsilence. Luna was so quiet it was scary. You could hear your heart beating in your chest. You could hear the blood flowing through your veins. You could hear your own ears.

Suddenly, there you are, alone with your own brain.

Back on Earth, all I'd ever wanted was for everybody else to shut up, so I could hear my own thoughts and not theirs. But here on Luna, the silence was so deep, it swallowed up everything. It was as vast and empty as the whole universe. It stretched from here to forever and back again. I felt like I had fill it with something or disappear too. Only I didn't have enough music or thoughts or anything else to fill up a silence that big.

Mickey stayed close to me, watching me carefully. This was going to be a long mad dash with very few rest breaks. Alexei wanted us to catch the train, and we didn't have enough air to do anything else. So it was hop-skip and bump from one hill to the next. Hither and thither and yawn. I was tired, and it was getting hard to pay intention. And nobody wanted to talk, we just wanted to get there.

Four and a half kilometers isn't that far. On Earth, it's maybe two hours' walk on level ground. On Luna, with lesser gravity, bouncing downslope at a brisk pace, it shouldn't be any longer; what you lose in mobility from the bubble suit, you get back from the lighter gravity.

But this part of Luna didn't have levelground. On the map it looked like a plain, but at ground level, it was a rolling bumpy surface, pockmarked with little craters, boulders, ridges, and rough hillocks. Tumbles of rocks were scattered everywhere. And every so often, there were chasms we had to leap over. Alexei called them "expansion joints," but didn't explain what they were.

I concentrated on my hop-skipping. I found a rhythm and played music in my head to match. A Philip Glass piece, one of the repetitive ones with endless chord changes. It could be played forever. And as long as I could keep it running in my head, I could keep moving. I'd probably have it stuck in my head for a month—

And then we stopped.

Brightness lay ahead. "Oh, chyort!"

Alexei laughed at my outburst. "Remind me to explain that to you." His voice came muffled in my ears.

–but the chyortwas real. We'd run out of shadow.

Ahead, the ground rose up into sunlight. Perpetual dawn slammed sideways across the landscape. It blazed and sparkled. It was too bright to look at, even with the goggles fully polarized.

"Is not to worry," said Alexei. I wanted to kick him. "Is not as bad as it looks."

"Not as bad—" That was Mickey. "How far does this extend?"

Alexei hesitated. "Is less than one kilometer. We can do it. We rest here. Turn off heaters. Get very cold. We run for fifteen minutes, straight that way. We warm up, da.We get hot. But we have fifteen minutes before bubble suits turn into little ovens. Who cannot run one kilometer in fifteen minutes? On Luna, is piece of cheese."

"You're crazy," said Douglas. "Absolutely crazy. Why didn't you tell us this before? Why didn't you tell us about the mountain climbing and the zip line and the bubble suits and everything?"

"Because if I tell you, you would say, 'no, Alexei, I'm afraid not. That sounds like much too hard. We will much rather sit here like little potted plants to be pickled in our own juices.' But I tell you that no, you are not little cabbages, and here we are, almost home, and you find you are much bigger and much braver than you thought. You do the mountain, you do the zip line, you do everything else—you can do this too. You have to. Is no alternative to this. You stay here, you die. And little stinking one with you. But you come with me across sunlight and you live to laugh about it. Get ready now. Time you stand here thinking about this is time you will not have on other side. Mikhail,help me check air on everyone, please." He was already peering at my readouts. Without looking up, he said, "Mikhail,do not give me that look. Remember, I promise to take care of you. I am keeping that promise. Right now I am taking better care of you than you are taking yourself. You should thank me. You will thank me soon enough. Come, please. I have too much money invested in you already. I do not intend to lose my investment. Charles Dingillian, you are fine. I have turned your air up just a little. You will do fine. Be grateful monkey does not breathe, you would not have enough air for both of you; otherwise, one of you would have to stay behind. As soon as we are all too cold to move, we will go. Come, Mikhail,let me check you now."

Alexei kept up a steady stream of chatter. Maybe his mind really was that peripatetic, spinning from thought to thought like a dervish. And maybe he was doing it deliberately to keep us from thinking what a stupid thing we were about to do. In all likelihood, we were going to end up as a bunch of fried mummies, baking on the Lunar plain. I wondered what kind of weird life-forms would evolve in our sealed and abandoned bubble suits. What would future Lunar explorers find growing here in the blazing sun? Flesh-eating fungi? Vacuum-breathing mold? Something dreadful, no doubt—especially Grottius Stinkoworsis.