In my helmet, somebody said, “Ignition!”
Chapter Seventeen
I figured it would be loud. And I expected the G-forces, like a piano on my chest. But the vibration nearly had me screaming in my helmet. I’d read that these tubs shook like crazy.
I gripped the seat so hard I was afraid my fingers would puncture my pressure suit. I tried to relax my hands but couldn’t. I saw blue sky, really dark blue, for the first time in months. Then the palsied view ahead was blackness and stars.
When the engines cut off, the silence was as deafening as the roller coaster had been.
Metzger was saying something about attitude and roll, then he looked over and winked behind his visor. The view changed as he rolled the ship onto its back. It didn’t feel like that, of course. There’s no up or down you can feel. I just mean we were upside down, relative to Earth. Once he rolled us, Earth was over my head, not at my feet.
The planet a hundred miles below filled the little windshield. Or whatever you called the front window up here where there was no wind.
Until that moment all the pictures from space I had ever seen were the burnished, blue planet with the wispy white cloud streaks.
The dirty gray ball we’ve gotten used to since the Projectiles and their dust made me cry.
I tried to wipe my nose and bumped my hand against my helmet faceplate while Metzger and Ground Control rattled back and forth. He didn’t sound excited, exactly. Just a notch higher voice pitch, like he always sounded before an exam.
He held a Voiceboard in a gloved hand and studied its readouts, then let go of it. It hung there, weightless just like the holos show it.
“Metzger, can I undo my helmet?”
“No.”
“Just to wipe my nose—”
“This thing’s brand-new. If it develops even a pinhole leak, we could be dead.”
We were drifting a quarter million miles through vacuum. I’d seen all those holos where the guy in the space suit has a bad heater and he freezes solid. Or his head explodes when his suit rips. Or he just floats off into space sobbing into his radio. I always thought that last would be the worst. I licked my lip and tried to forget the snot.
There was no sound except the three of us breathing into our helmet mikes.
The Apollo looked like a big rifle cartridge. The three of us sat in the cone-shaped capsule that formed the “bullet” on Apollo’s front. The cylindrical “cartridge” behind us stored the spider-legged Lunar Excursion Module. It was the part of Apollo that would drop to the lunar surface, slowed by retro-rockets, then land on its unfolded legs. Later the LEM would rocket us back to dock with the “bullet” capsule orbiting the moon. Then we would crawl back into the bullet and ride it back to Earth.
Over the next day, Metzger and Canaveral decided the capsule wasn’t going to spring a leak, so we got to take off our helmets and pressure suits. Metzger jettisoned the skin that encircled the LEM, then detached the “bullet” capsule we were riding in and reversed it so it traveled fat end forward. That let him dock the hatch on the capsule’s pointy end with the LEM’s hatch.
Once we popped the two hatches, we created a narrow tunnel between the two vessels. After hours shoehorned in the Apollo capsule, the extra space felt like we had finished off our attached garage.
Moving around in zero gravity is like swimming, except that every movement’s consequences are exaggerated. I got the hang fast, but Howard bounced around the Apollo like a golf ball hit in a shower stall.
Metzger and I finally strapped him back into his seat, and he explained our gear to me, panting. He held up a plasteel box the size of a kitten. “Mass spectrometer. Touch the probe to any part of the Projectile hull, and we’ll read chemical composition in a nanosecond.”
The next item I knew. “Palm holocam.”
He nodded. As we ticked off each item it went in a rucksack that soon bulged like Santa’s bag before his first stop.
I pointed at it. “Who carries that?”
“On the moon it weighs one-sixth what it does on Earth.”
“Meaning I carry that?”
He nodded. “And this.” He drew a pistol from floating wrappings, an old, nine-millimeter Browning automatic. He held it between fingers like it was rotten fruit. “I hate these things.”
I could tell the weapon was clear because the slide was back, and the magazine floated next to it.
He held up a plasti of ammunition. “The shells are loaded with less powder to reduce recoil in lunar gravity. Guns work fine in vacuum. Their combustion oxygen is stored in the powder grains—”
“Howard, why do I need a gun? It’s just a broken machine.”
He shrugged. “Precaution.”
“There’s something alive in that thing?”
He shrugged again. “Who knows? Be better if there is.”
“Better for who?”
He just shrugged.
Howard and Metzger kept busy in the LEM. Metzger checked the LEM’s systems, Howard the sensors and recorders he would use to examine the alien wreck.
My job was to check the low-tech part of the lunar-excursion equipment Howard wasn’t checking. I had a day to do it, and I thought while I worked.
We were actually going to walk on the moon in white, extravehicular-activity suits with gold visors, just like the old pioneers. The suit sleeves still had fifty-star American flag patches.
Until I unpacked the EVA suits I didn’t know how “just like.” While the suits had been updated, they had ac- tually been built and used for training decades ago, during the Apollo program.
This mission was so tacked-together that our EVA suits hadn’t even been laundered or checked since last century. Those old pioneers had trained hard enough to sweat plenty. I unzipped the first suit and ammonia reek slapped my nose like a gym locker of old jocks opened after seventy years. I breathed through my mouth to filter the stink as I worked.
I dug in a cargo net behind the suit that had been altered to fit me and found a fat-barreled signal-flare pistol and a yellowed pamphlet, copyright 1972, titled Surviving in the Pacific .
The capsules used to parachute into the ocean. I made a mental note to remind Howard and Metzger that they had forgotten to brief me whatsoever on return-flight procedure and tucked the leftovers into my suit’s thigh pocket.
I also found a packet of orange powder called Tang. I dissolved a little in a water squirt bottle and tasted it. Tang is to orange juice as MREs are to food.
It brought home to me how hardy the old-time space pioneers must have been. They crossed space in this tiny coffin, like a rice grain tossed on the Pacific, living on acidic swill. Many died. Not from the Tang. It wasn’t that bad.
But they didn’t even have ‘puters. They did math with wooden rulers.
The history chips say they came in peace for all mankind.
If that had been true, they wouldn’t have quit coming. Those old sleeve flag patches weren’t United Nations, and they sure weren’t Russian. The Cold War drove mankind to the moon. When America won that war, we stopped coming.
Since the first Neanderthal figured out he could poke his rival better with a stick than a finger, quantum technology leaps have been war-driven. From the chariots and long bows of antiquity to jets and nuclear fission last century to coagulant bandages and Brain-Link Robotics in this century, the sad truth is that war is to human innovation as manure is to marigolds.
