From the Ocean from teh Stars (49 page)

the occasion in his commentary; it must have been a strain even for his
quick wits. By this time, of course, half the Earth could see what he was
describing. The next morning, every newspaper on the planet carried
that famous photo of the crescent moon with the luminous slogan painted
across its darkened sector.

The letters were visible, before they finally dispersed into space, for
over an hour. By that time the words were almost a thousand miles long,
and were beginning to get blurred. But they were still readable until they
at last faded from sight in the ultimate vacuum between the planets.

Then the real fireworks began. Commander Vandenburg was abso
lutely furious, and promptly started to grill all his men. However, it was
soon clear that the saboteur—if you could call him that—had been back
on Earth. The bomb had been prepared there and shipped ready for
immediate use. It did not take long to find, and fire, the engineer who
had carried out the substitution. He couldn't have cared less, since his
financial needs had been taken care of for a good many years to come.

As for the experiment itself, it was completely successful from the
scientific point of view; all the recording instruments worked perfectly
as they analyzed the light from the unexpectedly shaped cloud. But we never let the Americans live it down, and I am afraid poor Captain Van
denburg was the one who suffered most. Before he came to the moon he
was a confirmed teetotaler, and much of his refreshment came from a
certain wasp-waisted bottle. But now, as a matter of principle, he can
only drink beer—and he hates the stuff.

A
QUESTION OF RESIDENCE

1 have already described the—shall we say—jockey
ing for position before take-off on the first flight to the moon. As it turned
out, the American, Russian, and British ships landed just about simul
taneously. No one has ever explained, however, why the British ship
came back nearly two weeks after the others.

Oh, I know the official story; I ought to, for I helped to concoct it. It
is true as far as it goes, but it scarcely goes far enough.

On all counts, the joint expedition had been a triumphant success.
There had been only one casualty, and in the manner of his death Vladi
mir Surov had made himself immortal. We had gathered knowledge that
would keep the scientists of Earth busy for generations, and that would
revolutionize almost all our ideas concerning the nature of the universe

around us. Yes, our five months on the moon had been well spent, and
we could go home to such welcomes as few heroes had ever had before.

However, there was still a good deal of tidying up to be done. The
instruments that had been scattered all over the lunar landscape were
still busily recording, and much of the information they gathered could
not be automatically radioed back to Earth. There was no point in all
three of the expeditions staying on the moon to the last minute; the per
sonnel of one would be sufficient to finish the job. But who would volun
teer to be caretaker while the others went back to gain the glory? It was
a difficult problem, but one that would have to be solved very soon.

As far as supplies were concerned, we had little to worry about. The
automatic freight rockets could keep us provided with air, food, and
water for as long as we wished to stay on the moon. We were all in good
health, though a little tired. None of the anticipated psychological trou
bles had cropped up, perhaps because we had all been so busy on tasks
of absorbing interest that we had had no time to worry about going crazy. But, of course, we all looked forward to getting back to Earth and seeing
our families again.

The first change of plan was forced upon us by the
Ziolkovski
being
put out of commission when the ground beneath one of her landing legs
suddenly gave way. The ship managed to stay upright, but the hull was badly twisted and the pressure cabin sprang dozens of leaks. There was
much debate about on-the-spot repairs, but it was decided that it would
be far too risky for her to take off in this condition. The Russians had no
alternative but to thumb lifts back in the
Goddard
and the
Endeavour;
by using the
Ziolkovski
^y
s
unwanted fuel, our ships would be able to man
age the extra load. However, the return flight would be extremely
cramped and uncomfortable for all concerned because everyone would
have to eat and sleep in shifts.

Either the American or the British ship, therefore, would be the first
back to Earth. During those final weeks, as the work of the expedition
was brought to its close, relations between Commander Vandenburg and
myself were somewhat strained. I even wondered if we ought to settle
the matter by tossing for it. . . .

Another problem was also engaging my attention—that of crew dis
cipline. Perhaps this is too strong a phrase; I would not like it to be
thought that a mutiny ever seemed probable. But all my men were now a
little abstracted and liable to be found, if off duty, scribbling furiously in corners. I knew exactly what was going on, for I was involved in it my
self. There wasn't a human being on the moon who had not sold ex
clusive rights to some newspaper or magazine, and we were all haunted

by approaching deadlines. The radio-teletype to Earth was in continuous
operation, sending tens of thousands of words a day, while even larger
slabs of deathless prose were being dictated over the speech circuits.

It was Professor Williams, our very practical-minded astronomer,
who came to me one day with the answer to my main problem.

"Skipper," he said, balancing himself precariously on the all-too-
collapsible table I used as my working desk inside the igloo, "there's no
technical reason, is there, why we should get back to Earth first?"

"No," I said, "merely a matter of fame, fortune, and seeing our fam
ilies again. But I admit those aren't technical reasons. We could stay
here another year if Earth kept sending supplies. If you want to suggest
that, however, I shall take great pleasure in strangling you."

"It's not as bad as that. Once the main body has gone back, which
ever party is left can follow in two or three weeks at the latest. They'll
get a lot of credit, in fact, for self-sacrifice, modesty, and similar virtues."

"Which will be very poor compensation for being second home."

"Right—we need something else to make it worthwhile. Some more
material reward."

"Agreed. What do you suggest?"

Williams pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall in front of me,
between the two pin-ups we had stolen from the
Goddard.
The length of our stay was indicated by the days that had been crossed off in red
ink; a big question mark in two weeks' time showed when the first ship
would be heading back to Earth.

"There's your answer," he said. "If we go back then, do you realize
what will happen? I'll tell you."

He did, and I kicked myself for not having thought of it first.

The next day, I explained my decision to Vandenburg and Krasnin.

"We'll stay behind and do the mopping up," I said. "It's a matter of
common sense. The
Goddard's
a much bigger ship than ours and can
carry an extra four people, while we can only manage two more, and
even then it will be a squeeze. If you go first, Van, it will save a lot of peo
ple from eating their hearts out here for longer than necessary."

"That's very big of you," replied Vandenburg. "I won't hide the fact
that we'll be happy to get home. And it's logical, I admit, now that the
Ziolkovski's
out of action. Still, it means quite a sacrifice on your part,
and I don't really like to take advantage of it."

I gave an expansive wave.

"Think nothing of it," I answered. "As long as you boys don't grab
all the credit, we'll take our turn. After all, we'll have the show here to
ourselves when you've gone back to Earth."

Krasnin was looking at me with a rather calculating expression, and
I found it singularly difficult to return his gaze.

"I hate to sound cynical," he said, "but I've learned to be a little
suspicious when people start doing big favors without very good reasons.
And frankly, I don't think the reason you've given is good enough. You
wouldn't have anything else up your sleeve, would you?"

"Oh, very well," I sighed. "I'd hoped to get a
little
credit, but I see
it's no use trying to convince anyone of the purity of my motives. I've got
a reason, and you might as well know it. But please don't spread it around;
I'd hate the folks back on Earth to be disillusioned. They still think of us
as noble and heroic seekers after knowledge; let's keep it that way, for all
our sakes."

Then I pulled out the calendar, and explained to Vandenburg and
Krasnin what Williams had already explained to me. They listened with
skepticism, then with growing sympathy.

"I had no idea it was
that
bad," said Vandenburg at last.

"Americans never have," I said sadly. "Anyway, that's the way it's
been for half a century, and it doesn't seem to get any better. So you
agree with my suggestion?"

"Of course. It suits us fine, anyhow. Until the next expedition's ready,
the moon's all yours."

I remembered that phrase, two weeks later, as I watched the
God
dard
blast up into the sky toward the distant, beckoning Earth. It was
lonely, then, when the Americans and all but two of the Russians had
gone. We envied them the reception they got, and watched jealously on
the TV screens their triumphant processions through Moscow and New
York. Then we went back to work, and bided our time. Whenever we
felt depressed, we would do little sums on bits of paper and would be
instantly restored to cheerfulness.

The red crosses marched across the calendar as the short terrestrial
days went by—days that seemed to have very little connection with the
slow cycle of lunar time. At last we were ready; all the instrument read
ings were taken, all the specimens and samples safely packed away
aboard the ship. The motors roared into life, giving us for a moment the
weight we would feel again when we were back in Earth's gravity. Be
low us the rugged lunar landscape, which we had grown to know so well, fell swiftly away; within seconds we could see no sign at all of the build
ings and instruments we had so laboriously erected and which future ex
plorers would one day use.

The homeward voyage had begun. We returned to Earth in unevent
ful discomfort, joined the already half-dismantled
Goddard
beside Space

Station Three, and were quickly ferried down to the world we had left
seven months before.

Seven months:
that, as Williams had pointed out, was the all-impor
tant figure. We had been on the moon for more than half a financial
year—and for all of us, it had been the most profitable year of our lives.

Sooner or later, I suppose, this interplanetary loophole will be
plugged; the Department of Inland Revenue is still fighting a gallant rear
guard action, but we seem neatly covered under Section 57, paragraph 8
of the Capital Gains Act of 1972. We wrote our books and articles on
the moon—and until there's a lunar government to impose income tax,
we're hanging on to every penny.

And if the ruling finally goes against us—well, there's always Mars. . . .