the good of everyone else? What possible objection do you have?”
Baldur hesitated and seemed to be struggling for words.
“It's—it's against my principles,” he said. “Yes, that's it. My religion won't allow me to take injections.”
Pat knew vaguely that there were people with such scruples. Yet he did not for a moment believe that Baldur was one of them. The man was lying. But why?
“Can I make a point?” said a voice behind Pat's back.
“Of course, Mister Harding,” he answered, welcoming anything that might break this impasse.
“You say you won't permit any injections, Mister Baldur,” continued Harding, in tones that reminded Pat of his crossexamination of Mrs. Schuster. (How long ago that seemed!) “But I can tell that you weren't born on the Moon. No one can miss going through Quarantine—so, how did you get here without taking the usual shots?”
The question obviously left Baldur extremely agitated.
“That's no business of yours,” he snapped.
“Quite true,” said Harding pleasantly. “I'm only trying to be helpful.” He stepped forward and reached out his left hand. “I don't suppose you'd let me see your Interplanetary Vaccination Certificate?”
That was a damn silly thing to ask, thought Pat. No human eye could read the magnetically inscribed information on an IVC. He wondered if this would occur to Baldur, and if so, what he would do about it.
He had no time to do anything. He was still staring, obviously taken by surprise, at Harding's open palm when Baldur's interrogator moved his other hand so swiftly that Pat never saw exactly what happened. It was like Sue's conjuring trick with Mrs. Williams-but far more spectacular, and also much deadlier. As far as Pat could judge, it involved the side of the hand and the base of the neck—and it was not, he was quite sure, the kind of skill he ever wished to acquire.
“That will hold him for fifteen minutes,” said Harding in a matter-of-fact voice, as Baldur crumpled up in his seat. “Can you give me one of those tubes? Thanks.” He pressed the cylinder against the unconscious man's arm; there was no sign that it had any additional effect.
The situation, thought Pat, had got somewhat out of his control. He was grateful that Harding had exercised his singular skills, but was not entirely happy about them.
“Now what was all that?” he asked, a little plaintively.
Harding rolled up Baldur's left sleeve, and turned the arm over to reveal the fleshy underside. The skin was covered with literally hundreds of almost invisible pinpricks.
“Know what that is?” he said quietly.
Pat nodded. Some had taken longer to make the trip than others, but by now all the vices of weary old Earth had reached the Moon.
“You can't blame the poor devil for not giving his reasons. He's been conditioned against using the needle. Judging from the state of those scars, he started his cure only a few weeks ago. Now it's psychologically impossible for him to accept an injection. I hope I've not given him a relapse, but that's the least of his worries.”
“How did he ever get through Quarantine?”
“Oh, there's a special section for people like this. The doctors don't talk about it, but the customers get temporary deconditioning under hypnosis. There are more of them than you might think; a trip to the Moon's highly recommended as part of the cure. It gets you away from your original environment.”
There were quite a few other questions that Pat would have liked to ask Harding, but they had already wasted several minutes. Thank heavens all the remaining passengers had gone under. That last demonstration of judo, or whatever it was, must have encouraged any stragglers.
“You won't need me any more,” said Sue, with a small, brave smile. “Good-by, Pat—wake me when it's over.”
“I will,” he promised, lowering her gently into the space between the seat rows. “Or not at all,” he added, when he saw that her eyes were closed.
He remained bending ovet her for several seconds before he regained enough control to face the others. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but now the opportunity was gone, perhaps forever.
Swallowing to overcome the dryness in his throat, he turned to the five survivors. There was still one more problem to deal with, and David Barrett summed it up for him.
“Well, Captain,” he said. “Don't leave us in suspense. Which of us do you want to keep you company?”
One by one, Pat handed over five of the sleep tubes.
“Thank you for your help,” he said. “I know this is a little melodramatic, but it's the neatest way. Only four of those will work.”
“I hope mine will,” said Barrett, wasting no time. It did. A few seconds later, Harding, Bryan, and Johanson followed the Englishman into oblivion.
“Well,” said Dr. McKenzie, “I seem to be odd man out. I'm flattered by your choice—or did you leave it to luck?”
“Before I answer that question,” replied Pat, “I'd better let Port Roris know what's happened.”
He walked to the radio and gave a brief survey of the situation. There was a shocked silence from the other end. A few minutes later, Chief Engineer Lawrence was on the line.
“You did the best thing, of course,” he said, when Pat had repeated his story in more detail. “Even if we hit no snags, we can't possibly reach you in under five hours. Will you be able to hold out until then?”
“The two of us, yes,” answered Pat. “We can take turns using the space-suit breathing circuit. It's the passengers I'm worried about.”
“The only thing you can do is to check their respiration, and give them a blast of oxygen if they seem distressed. We'll do our damnedest from this end. Anything more you want to say?”
Pat thought for a few seconds.
“No,” he said, a little wearily. “I'll call you again on each quarter-hour. Selene out.”
He got to his feet—slowly, for the strain and the carbon-dioxide poisoning were now beginning to tell heavily upon him—and said to McKenzie: “Right, Doc—give me a hand with that space suit.”
“I'm ashamed of myself. I'd forgotten all about that.”
“And I was worried because some of the other passengers might have remembered. They must all have seen it, when they came in through the air lock. It just goes to prove how you can overlook the obvious.”
It took them only five minutes to detach the absorbent canisters and the twenty-four-hour oxygen supply from the suit; the whole breathing circuit had been designed for quick release, in case it was ever needed for artificial respiration. Not for the first time, Pat blessed the skill, ingenuity, and foresight that had been lavished on Selene. There were some things that had been overlooked, or that might have been done a little better—but not many.
Their lungs aching, the only two men still conscious aboard the cruiser stood staring at each other across the gray metal cylinder that held another day of life. Then, simultaneously, each said: “You go first.”
They laughed without much humor at the hackneyed situation, then Pat answered, “I won't argue” and placed the mask over his face.
Like a cool sea breeze after a dusty summer day, like a wind from the mountain pine forests stirring the stagnant air in some deep lowlands valley—so the flow of oxygen seemed to Pat. He took four slow, deep breaths, and exhaled to the fullest extent, to sweep the carbon dioxide out of his lungs. Then, like a pipe of peace, he handed the breathing kit over to McKenzie.
Those four breaths had been enough to invigorate him, and to sweep away the cobwebs that had been gathering in his brain. Perhaps it was partly psychological—could a few cubic centimeters of oxygen have had so profound an effect?—but whatever the explanation, he felt like a new man. Now he could face the five-or more— hours of waiting that lay ahead.
Ten minutes later, he felt another surge of confidence. All the passengers seemed to be breathing as normally as could be expected—very slowly, but steadily. He gave each one a few seconds of oxygen, then called Base again.
“Selene here,” he said. “Captain Harris reporting. Doctor McKenzie and I both feel quite fit now, and none of the passengers seem distressed. I'll remain listening out, and will call you again on the half-hour.”
“Message received. But hold on a minute, several of the news agencies want to speak to you.”
“Sony,” Pat answered. “I've given all the information there is, and I've twenty unconscious men and women to look after. Selene out.”
