Let's not stall around , Jake told himself. Aloud he said, I have no excuses for anything this last trip. If the Commodore does not approve the way I run my control room, he may have my resignation.
What are you talking about?
I, well don't you have a passenger complaint on me?
Oh, that! Soames brushed it aside. Yes, he's been here. But I have Kelly's report, too and your chief jetman's, and a special from Supra-New York. That was crack piloting, Pemberton.
You mean there's no beef from the Company?
When have I failed to back up my pilots? You were perfectly right; I would have stuffed him out the air lock. Let's get down to business: You're on the space-to-space board, but I want to send a special to Luna City. Will you take it, as a favor to me?
Pemberton hesitated: Soames went on, That oxygen you saved is for the Cosmic Research Project. They blew the seals on the north tunnel and lost tons of the stuff. The work is stopped about $130,000 a day in overhead, wages, and penalties. The Gremlin is here, but no pilot until the Moonbat gets in except you. Well?
But I look, Commodore, you can't risk people's necks on a jet landing of mine. I'm rusty; I need a refresher and a checkout.
No passengers, no crew, no captain your neck alone.
I'll take her.
Twenty-eight minutes later, with the ugly, powerful hull of the Gremlin around him, he blasted away. One strong shove to kill her orbital speed and let her fall toward the Moon, then no more worries until it came time to ride 'er down on her tail.
He felt good until he hauled out two letters, the one he had failed to send, and one from Phyllis, delivered at Terminal.
The letter from Phyllis was affectionate and superficial. She did not mention his sudden departure; she ignored his profession completely. The letter was a model of correctness, but it worried him.
He tore up both letters and started another. It said, in part: never said so outright, but you resent my job.
I have to work to support us. You've got a job, too. It's an old, old job that women have been doing a long time crossing the plains in covered wagons, waiting for ships to come back from China, or waiting around a mine head after an explosion kiss him goodbye with a smile, take care of him at home.
You married a spaceman, so part of your job is to accept my job cheerfully. I think you can do it, when you realize it. I hope so, for the way things have been going won't do for either of us.
Believe me, I love you. Jake
He brooded on it until time to bend the ship down for his approach. From twenty miles altitude down to one mile he let the robot brake her, then shifted to manual while still falling slowly. A perfect airless-landing would be the reverse of the take-off of a war rocket free fall, then one long blast of the jets, ending with the ship stopped dead as she touched the ground. In practice a pilot must feel his way down, not too slowly; a ship could burn all the fuel this side of Venus fighting gravity too long.
Forty seconds later, falling a little more than 140 miles per hour, he picked up in his periscopes the thousand-foot static towers. At 300 feet he blasted five gravities for more than a second, cut it, and caught her with a one-sixth gravity, Moon-normal blast. Slowly he eased this off, feeling happy.
The Gremlin hovered, her bright jet splashing the soil of the Moon, then settled with dignity to land without a jar.
The ground crew took over; a sealed runabout jeeped Pemberton to the tunnel entrance. Inside Luna City, he found himself paged before he finished filing his report. When he took the call, Soames smiled at him from the viewplate. I saw that landing from the field pick-up, Pemberton. You don't need a refresher course.
Jake blushed. Thank you, sir.
Unless you are dead set on space-to-space, I can use you on the regular Luna City run. Quarters here or Luna City? Want it?
He heard himself saying, Luna City. I'll take it.
He tore up his third letter as he walked into Luna City post office. At the telephone desk he spoke to a blonde in a blue moonsuit. Get me Mrs. Jake Pemberton, Suburb six-four-oh-three, Dodge City, Kansas, please.
She looked him over. You pilots sure spend money.
Sometimes phone calls are cheap. Hurry it, will you?
Phyllis was trying to phrase the letter she felt she should have written before. It was easier to say in writing that she was not complaining of loneliness nor lack of fun, but that she could not stand the strain of worrying about his safety. But then she found herself quite unable to state the logical conclusion. Was she prepared to face giving him up entirely if he would not give up space? She truly did not know...the phone call was a welcome interruption.
The viewplate stayed blank. Long distance, came a thin voice. Luna City calling.
Fear jerked at her heart. Phyllis Pemberton speaking.
An interminable delay she knew it took nearly three seconds for radio waves to make the Earth-Moon round trip, but she did not remember it and it would not have reassured her. All she could see was a broken home, herself a widow, and Jake, beloved Jake, dead in space.
Mrs. Jake Pemberton?
Yes, yes! Go ahead. Another wait had she sent him away in a bad temper, reckless, his judgment affected? Had he died out there, remembering only that she fussed at him for leaving her to go to work? Has she failed him when he needed her? She knew that her Jake could not be tied to apron strings; men grown-up men, not mammas' boys had to break away from mother's apron strings. Then why had she tried to tie him to hers? she had known better; her own mother had warned her not to try it.
She prayed.
Then another voice, one that weakened her knees with relief: That you, honey?
Yes, darling, yes! What are you doing on the Moon?
It's a long story. At a dollar a second it will keep. What I want to know is are you willing to come to Luna City?
It was Jake's turn to suffer from the inevitable lag in reply. He wondered if Phyllis were stalling, unable to make up her mind. At last he heard her say, Of course, darling. When do I leave?
When say, don't you even want to know why ?
She started to say that it did not matter, then said, Yes, tell me. The lag was still present but neither of them cared. He told her the news, then added, Run over to the Springs and get Olga Pierce to straighten out the red tape for you. Need my help to pack?
She thought rapidly. Had he meant to come back anyhow, he would not have asked. No. I can manage.
Good girl. I'll radiostat you a long letter about what to bring and so forth. I love you. 'Bye now!
Oh, I love you, too. Goodbye, darling.
Pemberton came out of the booth whistling. Good girl, Phyllis. Staunch. He wondered why he had ever doubted her.
The Long Watch
Nine ships blasted off from Moon Base. Once in space, eight of them formed a globe around the smallest. They held this formation all the way to Earth.
The small ship displayed the insignia of an admiral yet there was no living thing of any sort in her. She was not even a passenger ship, but a drone, a robot ship intended for radioactive cargo. This trip she carried nothing but a lead coffin and a Geiger counter that was never quiet.
from the editorial After Ten Years ,
film 38, 17 June 2009, Archives of the N. Y. Times
I
Johnny Dahlquist blew smoke at the Geiger counter. He grinned wryly and tried it again. His whole body was radioactive by now. Even his breath, the smoke from his cigarette, could make the Geiger counter scream.
How long had he been here? Time doesn't mean much on the Moon. Two days? Three? A week? He let his mind run back: the last clearly marked time in his mind was when the Executive Officer had sent for him, right after breakfast