For the first time in twenty-four hours, Maurice Spenser was relaxing. Everything that could be done had been done. Men and equipment were already moving toward Port Roris. (Lucky about Jules Braques being at Clavius; he was one of the best cameramen in the business, and they'd often worked together.) Captain Anson was doing sums with the computer and looking thoughtfully at contour maps of the Mountains. The crew (all six) had been rounded up from the bars (all three) and informed that there was yet another change of route. On Earth, at least a dozen contracts had been signed and telefaxed, and large sums of money had already changed hands. The financial wizards of Interplanet News would be calculating, with scientific precision, just how much they could charge the other agencies for the story, without driving them to charter ships of their own—not that this was at all likely, for Spenser had too great a lead. No competitor could possibly reach the Mountains in less than forty-eight hours; he would be there in six.
Yes, it was very pleasant to take it easy, in the calm and confident assurance that everything was under control and going the way you wanted. It was these interludes that made life worth living, and Spenser knew how to make the most of them. They were his panacea against ulcers—still, after a hundred years, the occupational disease of the communications industry.
It was typical of him, however, that he was relaxing on the job. He was lying, a drink in one hand, a plate of sandwiches by the other, in the small observation lounge of the Embarkation Building . Through the double sheets of glass he could see the tiny dock from which Selene had sailed three days ago. (There was no escaping from those maritime words, inappropriate though they were to this situation.) It was merely a strip of concrete stretching for twenty meters out into the uncanny flatness of the dust; lying most of its length, like a giant concertina, was the flexible tube through which the passengers could walk from the Port into the cruiser. Now open to vacuum, it was deflated and partly collapsed—a most depressing sight, Spenser could not help thinking.
He glanced at his watch, then at that unbelievable horizon. If he had been asked to guess, he would have said that it was at least a hundred kilometers away, not two or three. A few minutes later, a reflected glint of sunlight caught his eye. There they were, climbing up over the edge of the Moon. They would be here in five minutes, out of the air lock in ten. Plenty of time to finish that last sandwich.
Dr. Lawson showed no signs of recognition when Spenser greeted him; that was not surprising, for their previous brief conversation had been in almost total darkness.
“Doctor Lawson? I'm Bureau Chief of Interplanet News. Permission to record?”
“Just a minute,” interrupted Lawrence . “I know the Interplanet man. You're not Joe Leonard.. ..”
“Correct; I'm Maurice Spenser. I took over from Joe last week. He has to get used to Earth gravity again— otherwise he'll be stuck here for life.”
“Well, you're damn quick off the mark. It was only an hour ago that we radioed.”
Spenser thought it best not to mention that he had already been here the better part of a day.
“I'd still like to know if I can record,” he repeated. He was very conscientious about this. Some newsmen took a chance and went ahead without permission, but if you were caught, you lost your job. As a Bureau Chief, he had to keep the rules laid down to safeguard his profession, and the public.
“Not now, if you don't mind,” said Lawrence . “I've fifty things to organize, but Doctor Lawson will be glad to talk to you; he did most of the work and deserves all the credit. You can quote me on that.”
“Er—thank you,” mumbled Tom, looking embarrassed.
“Right—see you later,” said Lawrence . “I'll be at the Local Engineer's office, living on pills. But you might as well get some sleep.”
“Not until I've finished with you,” corrected Spenser, grabbing Tom and aiming him in the direction of the hotel.
The first person they met in the ten-meter-square foyer was Captain Anson.
“I've been looking for you, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “The Space-Workers' Union is making trouble. You know there's a ruling about time off between trips. Well, it seems that—”
“Please, Captain, not now. Take it up with Interplanet's Legal Department. Call Clavius 1234, ask for Harry Dantzig-he'll straighten it out.”
He propelled the unresisting Tom Lawson up the stairs (it was odd to find a hotel without elevators, but they were unnecessary on a world where you weighed only a dozen or so kilos) and into his suite.
Apart from its excessively small size, and complete absence of windows, the suite might have been in any cheap hotel on Earth. The simple chairs, couch, and table were manufactured from the very minimum of material, most of it Fiberglas, for quartz was common on the Moon. The bathroom was perfectly conventional (that was a relief, after those tricky freefall toilets), but the bed had a slightly disconcerting appearance. Some visitors from Earth found it difficult to sleep under a sixth of a gravity, and for their benefit an elastic sheet could be stretched across the bed and held in place by light springs. The whole arrangement had a distinct flavor of strait-jackets and padded cells.
Another cheerful little touch was the notice behind the door, which announced in English, Russian, and Mandarin that THIS HOTEL IS INDEPENDENTLY PRESSURISED. IN THE EVENT OF A DOME FAILURE, YOU WILL BE PERFECTLY SAFE. SHOULD THIS OCCUR, PLEASE REMAIN IN YOUR ROOM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. THANK YOU.
Spenser had read that notice several times. He still thought that the basic information could have been conveyed in a more confident, lighthearted manner. The wording lacked charm.
And that, he decided, was the whole trouble on the Moon. The struggle against the forces of Nature was so fierce that no energy was left for gracious living. This was most noticeable in the contrast between the superb efficiency of the technical services, and the easygoing, take-it-or-leave-it attitude one met in all the other walks of life. If you complained about the telephone, the plumbing, the air (especially the air!), it was fixed within minutes. But just try to get quick service in a restaurant or bar .. .
“I know you're very tired,” Spenser began, “but I'd like to ask a few questions. You don't mind being recorded, I hope?”
“No,” said Tom, who had long since passed the stage of caring one way or the other. He was slumped in a chair, mechanically sipping the drink Spenser had poured out, but obviously not tasting it.
“This is Maurice Spenser, Interplanet News, talking with Doctor Thomas Lawson. Now, Doctor, all we know at the moment is that you and Mister Lawrence, Chief Engineer, Earthside, have found Selene, and that the people inside are safe. Perhaps you'll tell us, without going into technical details, just how you—hell and damnation!”
He caught the slowly falling glass without spilling a drop, then eased the sleeping astronomer over to the couch. Well, he couldn't grumble; this was the only item that hadn't worked according to plan. And even this might be to his advantage; for no one else could find Lawson—still less, interview him-while he was sleeping it off in what the Hotel Roris, with a fine sense of humor, called its luxury suite.
In Clavius City , the Tourist Commissioner had finally managed to convince everyone that he had not been playing favorites. His relief at hearing of Selene's discovery had quickly abated when Reuter's, Time-Space, Triplanetary Publications, and Lunar News had phoned him in rapid succession to ask just how Interplanet had managed to break the story first. It had been on the wires, in fact, even before it had reached Administration headquarters, thanks to Spenser's thoughtful monitoring of the dust-ski radios.
Now that it was obvious what had happened, the suspicions of all the other news services had been replaced by frank admiration for Spenser's luck and enterprise. It would be a little while yet before they realized that he had an even bigger trick up his capacious sleeve.
The Communications Center at Clavius had seen many dramatic moments, but this was one of the most unforgettable. It was, thought Commissioner Davis, almost like listening to voices from beyond the grave. A few hours ago, all these men and women were presumed dead—yet here they were, fit and cheerful, lining up at that buried microphone to relay messages of reassurance to their friends and relatives. Thanks to the probe which Lawrence had left as marker and antenna, that fifteen-meter blanket of dust could no longer cut the cruiser off from the rest of mankind.
The impatient reporters had to wait until there was a break in Selene's transmission before they could get their interviews. Miss Wilkins was now speaking, dictating messages that were being handed to her by the passengers. The cruiser must have been full of people scribbling telegraphese on the backs of torn-up guidebooks,
