From the Ocean from teh Stars (46 page)

lead, and I hoped they wouldn't be too mad at me when we met again on
the moon.

I switched on the rear camera and looked back at the distant gleam
of the space station, just emerging from the shadow of Earth. It was
some moments before I realized that the
Goddard
and the
Ziolkovski
weren't still floating beside it where I'd left them. . . .

No; they were just half a mile away, neatly matching my velocity. I stared at them in utter disbelief for a second, before I realized that every one of us had had the same idea. "Why, you pair of double-crossers!" I gasped. Then I began to laugh so much that it was several minutes before
I dared call up a very worried Earth Control and tell them that every
thing had gone according to plan—though in no case was it the plan that
had been originally announced. . . .

We were all very sheepish when we radioed each other to exchange
mutual congratulations. Yet at the same time, I think everyone was secretly pleased that it had turned out this way. For the rest of the trip, we were never more than a few miles apart, and the actual landing maneuvers were so well synchronized that our three braking jets hit the moon
simultaneously.

Well, almost simultaneously. I might make something of the fact that the recorder tape shows I touched down two-fifths of a second ahead of
Krasnin. But I'd better not, for Vandenburg was precisely the same
amount ahead of me.

On a quarter-of-a-million-mile trip, I think you could call that a photo finish. . . .

ROBIN HOOD, F.R.S.

We had landed early in the dawn of the long lunar
day, and the slanting shadows lay all around us, extending for miles
across the plain. They would slowly shorten as the sun rose higher in the
sky, until at noon they would almost vanish—but noon was still five days
away, as we measured time on Earth, and nightfall was seven days later
still. We had almost two weeks of daylight ahead of us before the sun set
and the bluely gleaming Earth became the mistress of the sky.

There was little time for exploration during those first hectic days.
We had to unload the ships, grow accustomed to the alien conditions
surrounding us, learn to handle our electrically powered tractors and
scooters, and erect the igloos that would serve as homes, offices, and labs

until the time came to leave. At a pinch, we could live in the spaceships,
but it would be excessively uncomfortable and cramped. The igloos were
not exactly commodious, but they were luxury after five days in space.
Made of tough, flexible plastic, they were blown up like balloons, and their interiors were then partitioned into separate rooms. Air locks allowed access to the outer world, and a good deal of plumbing linked to the ships' air-purification plants kept the atmosphere breathable. Need
less to say, the American igloo was the biggest one, and had come com
plete with everything,
including
the kitchen sink—not to mention a wash
ing machine, which we and the Russians were always borrowing.

It was late in the "afternoon"—about ten days after we had landed—
before we were properly organized and could think about serious scien
tific work. The first parties made nervous little forays out into the wilder
ness around the base, familiarizing themselves with the territory. Of course, we already possessed minutely detailed maps and photographs
of the region in which we had landed, but it was surprising how mislead
ing they could sometimes be. What had been marked as a small hill on a chart often looked like a mountain to a man toiling along in a space suit, and apparently smooth plains were often covered knee-deep with dust,
which made progress extremely slow and tedious.

These were minor difficulties, however, and the low gravity—which
gave all objects only a sixth of their terrestrial weight—compensated
for much. As the scientists began to accumulate their results and speci
mens, the radio and TV circuits with Earth became busier and busier,
until they were in continuous operation. We were taking no chances; even
if
we
didn't get home, the knowledge we were gathering would do so.

The first of the automatic supply rockets landed two days before sun
set, precisely according to plan. We saw its braking jets flame briefly
against the stars, then blast again a few seconds before touchdown. The actual landing was hidden from us, since for safety reasons the dropping
ground was three miles from the base. And on the moon, three miles is
well over the curve of the horizon.

When we got to the robot, it was standing slightly askew on its tripod
shock absorbers, but in perfect condition. So was everything aboard it,
from instruments to food. We carried the stores back to base in triumph,
and had a celebration that was really rather overdue. The men had been
working too hard, and could do with some relaxation.

It was quite a party; the high light, I think, was Commander Krasnin
trying to do a Cossack dance in a space suit. Then we turned our minds
to competitive sports, but found that, for obvious reasons, outdoor activi
ties were somewhat restricted. Games like croquet or bowls would have

been practical had we had the equipment; but cricket and football were
definitely out. In that gravity, even a football would go half a mile if it
were given a good kick—and a cricket ball would never be seen again.

Professor Trevor Williams was the first person to think of a practical
lunar sport. He was our astronomer, and also one of the youngest men
ever to be made a Fellow of the Royal Society, being only thirty when this
ultimate accolade was conferred upon him. His work on methods of interplanetary navigation had made him world famous; less well known, how
ever, was his skill as a toxophilite. For two years in succession he had
been archery champion for Wales. I was not surprised, therefore, when
I discovered him shooting at a target propped up on a pile of lunar slag.

The bow was a curious one, strung with steel control wire and shaped
from a laminated plastic bar. I wondered where Trevor had got hold of
it, then remembered that the robot freight rocket had now been canni
balized and bits of it were appearing in all sorts of unexpected places.
The arrows, however, were the really interesting feature. To give them
stability on the airless moon, where, of course, feathers would be useless,
Trevor had managed to rifle them. There was a little gadget on the bow
that set them spinning, like bullets, when they were fired, so that they
kept on course when they left the bow.

Even with this rather makeshift equipment, it was possible to shoot a
mile if one wished to. However, Trevor didn't want to waste arrows,
which were not easy to make; he was more interested in seeing the sort of
accuracy he could get. It was uncanny to watch the almost flat trajectory
of the arrows: they seemed to be traveling parallel with the ground. If
he wasn't careful, someone warned Trevor, his arrows might become
lunar satellites and would hit him in the back when they completed their
orbit.

The second supply rocket arrived the next day, but this time things
didn't go according to plan. It made a perfect touchdown, but unfortunately the radar-controlled automatic pilot made one of those mistakes
that such simple-minded machines delight in doing. It spotted the only
really unclimbable hill in the neighborhood, locked its beam onto the
summit of it, and settled down there like an eagle descending upon its
mountain aerie.

Our badly needed supplies were five hundred feet above our heads,
and in a few hours night would be falling. What was to be done?

About fifteen people made the same suggestion at once, and for the
next few minutes there was a great scurrying about as we rounded up all
the nylon line on the base. Soon there was more than a thousand yards of
it coiled in neat loops at Trevor's feet while we all waited expectantly. He

tied one end to his arrow, drew the bow, and aimed it experimentally
straight toward the stars. The arrow rose a little more than half the height
of the cliff; then the weight of the line pulled it back.

"Sorry," said Trevor. "I just can't make it. And don't forget—we'd
have to send up some kind of grapnel as well, if we want the end to stay
up there."

There was much gloom for the next few minutes, as we watched the
coils of line fall slowly back from the sky. The situation was really some
what absurd. In our ships we had enough energy to carry us a quarter of
a million miles from the moon—yet we were baffled by a puny little cliff. If we had time, we could probably find a way up to the top from the other
side of the hill, but that would mean traveling several miles. It would be
dangerous, and might well be impossible, during the few hours of daylight
that were left.

Scientists were never baffled for long, and too many ingenious
(sometimes overingenious) minds were working on the problem for it to
remain unresolved. But this time it was a little more difficult, and only
three people got the answer simultaneously. Trevor thought it over, then
said noncommittally, "Well, it's worth trying."

The preparations took a little while, and we were all watching anx
iously as the rays of the sinking sun crept higher and higher up the sheer
cliff looming above us. Even if Trevor could get a line and grapnel up
there, I thought to myself, it would not be easy making the ascent while
encumbered with a space suit. I have no head for heights, and was glad that several mountaineering enthusiasts had already volunteered for the
job.

At last everything was ready. The line had been carefully arranged
so that it would lift from the ground with the minimum of hindrance. A
light grapnel had been attached to the line a few feet behind the arrow; we hoped that it would catch in the rocks up there and wouldn't let us
down—all too literally—when we put our trust in it.

This time, however, Trevor was not using a single arrow. He at
tached four to the line, at two-hundred-yard intervals. And I shall never
forget that incongruous spectacle of the space-suited figure, gleaming in
the last rays of the setting sun, as it drew its bow against the sky.

The arrow sped toward the stars, and before it had lifted more than
fifty feet Trevor was already fitting the second one to his improvised
bow. It raced after its predecessor, carrying the other end of the long
loop that was now being hoisted into space. Almost at once the third fol
lowed, lifting its section of line and I swear that the fourth arrow, with

its section, was on the way before the first had noticeably slackened its
momentum.

Now that there was no question of a single arrow lifting the entire
length of line, it was not hard to reach the required altitude. The first two
times the grapnel fell back; then it caught firmly somewhere up on the
hidden plateau—and the first volunteer began to haul himself up the
line. It was true that he weighed only about thirty pounds in this low
gravity, but it was still a long way to fall.

He didn't. The stores in the freight rocket started coming down the
cliff within the next hour, and everything essential had been lowered be
fore nightfall. I must confess, however, that my satisfaction was con
siderably abated when one of the engineers proudly showed me the
mouth organ he had had sent from Earth. Even then I felt certain that
we would all be very tired of that instrument before the long lunar night
had ended. . . .

But that, of course, was hardly Trevor's fault. As we walked back to the ship together, through the great pools of shadow that were flowing swiftly over the plain, he made a proposal that, I am sure, has puzzled
thousands of people ever since the detailed maps of the first lunar expedi
tion were published.

After all, it does seem a little odd that a flat and lifeless plain, broken
by a single small mountain, should now be labeled on all the charts of the moon as Sherwood Forest.

GREEN FINGERS

1 am very sorry, now that it's too late, that I never got
to know Vladimir Surov. As I remember him, he was a quiet little man
who could understand English but couldn't speak it well enough to make
conversation. Even to his colleagues, I suspect he was a bit of an enigma.
Whenever I went aboard the
Ziolkovski,
he would be sitting in a corner
working on his notes or peering through a microscope, a man who clung
to his privacy even in the tight and tiny world of a spaceship. The rest of
the crew did not seem to mind his aloofness; when they spoke to him, it was clear that they regarded him with tolerant affection, as well as with
respect. That was hardly surprising; the work he had done developing
plants and trees that could flourish far inside the Arctic Circle had al
ready made him the most famous botanist in Russia.

The fact that the Russian expedition had taken a botanist to the moon