Lunar Descent (30 page)

They ducked their heads and Joe led Annie through the connector sleeve into the second module. Once it had been a lab module, but Yuri had removed most of the fixtures and even a few bulkheads to transform it into a combination garage and studio. One end was dominated by scrap metal, bits and pieces of half-assembled electronics, tools, and torches; the other half was covered with paint-splattered tarps on which lay dozens of cans of oil paint, all imported at considerable expense from Earth. Parked on a large easel at the rear end of the room was a half-finished moonscape; it looked like a view of a sunrise over the Night Gallery. More paintings were stacked upright in the corner: astronomical art which, one day, would grace the walls of the private galleries in Leningrad and New York, where Yuri's work was sold at outrageous prices.

A tall, gaunt figure in a soiled white smock was bent over a workbench in the garage half of the room, back turned to them as they entered. A welder's mask was pulled down over his face, and white-hot sparks shot from an unseen object on which a mini-torch was being directed, emitting a harsh high whine as acetylene coaxed metal into place. The figure was concentrating wholly on his work; he didn't turn until Mighty Joe, grinning hugely, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Yuri!”

Honest Yuri jerked erect, half-turned to peer at them through the opaque visor, then quickly shut down the torch and ripped off his gloves. “Joe!” he yelled heartily as he shoved back his mask and stalked across the room to greet them. “Good to see you again!”

Before Mighty Joe could react, Yuri grabbed him in a Russian-style bear hug, kissing both cheeks and slapping his back with his big, callused hands … and then, as Annie tentatively raised her hand to offer him a courteous, conventional handshake, Yuri pounced on her in the same way, including the kisses and the back slaps, as if she were an old friend whom he had not seen in months. If Honest Yuri had cleaned up his living quarters, he had certainly not extended the same care to his appearance. He had let his hair and beard grow out again, and it was difficult to tell which was more filthy, his hands or his teeth. The last time Joe had seen him, Yuri had resembled Peter the Great; now he looked like Rasputin the Mad Monk.

Noonan looked as if she had just been licked by an over-friendly stray dog. Although she turned a little green, she didn't say anything, much to Joe's relief. He had forgotten to tell her how mercurial Honest Yuri's moods could be. Mighty Joe grinned. He wondered how many eccentrics like Honest Yuri she had encountered before.

“Come over here!” Yuri said, backing away from Noonan and excitedly waving them to the workbench. “Something for you to take back to the base with you when you return! A gift!” As Yuri whirled around, Joe shot a querying glance at Annie. She gave him a completely blank look, although her mouth was twitching at the corners.

A life-size bust, cast from pieces of scrap steel, rested on a polished aluminum pedestal. The sculpture was abstract enough that it lacked fine details, but it was apparently of an elderly, bearded man. It was beautiful, and entirely meaningless to both Joe and Annie. Yuri posed next to it proudly, hands tucked into the pockets of his smock, head smugly tilted back. He raised an eyebrow and waited expectantly for a response.

“Umm … pretty neat, Yuri,” Joe said. Still Yuri waited. “Looks great,” he added. Yuri's eyebrow arched just a little higher, but he said nothing. The pilot shrugged. “Who is it?” he asked.

Suddenly, Yuri's temperament changed entirely. The smile left his face, the twinkle escaped from his eyes; he hunched his shoulders slightly and glowered at Joe; then his dark eyes swept to Noonan. “Surely your companion has a better eye than you,” he said, fixing Annie with his baleful gaze.

“Uhhh …” Noonan glanced anxiously at the bust, then at Yuri, then at the bust again. “You? A self-portrait?”

Yuri's eyes clamped shut. His hands wadded into fists inside his pockets and he muttered something in Russian under his breath that was undoubtedly obscene. Then he took a slow breath and looked back up at them. “René Descartes,” he said with slow, drawling contempt. “The French philosopher-scientist after whom your base has been named.” He turned his head and looked at the sculpture. “I thought it might decorate your miserable rec room … but for all I know, the idiots there might think it's some movie star.”

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence. “Sorry, Yuri,” Joe said apologetically. “Didn't mean to insult you.” Annie looked suitably chastened.

Yuri sighed. “I'll get over it. I suppose you're here for the fuel pump.” He picked up the bust and carelessly shoved it into Mighty Joe's hands, then walked past him and Noonan to the connector sleeve. “It's out back. I'll get one of the robots to load it onto your truck for you.”

Before he ducked through the sleeve, he peered over his shoulder and added, “That still you ordered is ready, too. I'll have it loaded as well.” Then he disappeared into the adjacent module, leaving Joe red-faced and Annie gaping at him.

“The
still
you ordered?” she repeated. “Did I hear that right? A
still
? As in …?”

“As in homemade liquor,” Joe quietly admitted. “Yeah, you heard right. I asked him a couple of months ago to put one together to replace the still that the company tore out of here.” He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “They don't call it moonshine for nothing, sweetheart.”

He started walking toward the sleeve, but Noonan planted herself in front of him, throwing up her hands to stop him. “No no no no no no,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “René Descartes' head, yes, but you're not bringing back a still. You know the new rules.…”

“New rules are just the same as the old rules. Just a matter of hiding it a little better this time, that's all.” He looked down at her and let out his breath. “Look, darlin', it's already bought and paid for. I'm not about to just leave it out here, for chrissakes!”

“Uh-huh. And I expect we're just going to wheel into the base and unload it in front of Lester's and Quick-Draw's noses.” Her eyes widened in mock innocence. “Still? What still? It's one of Yuri's weird sculptures … ‘Ode to a Shot Liver.'”

“Well, actually, I was planning to drop it off at the mass-driver on the way in. Tycho said he'd hide it in an equipment locker till we found a place in the base to set it up.”

“Ohhhh …” Annie nodded her head in cynical agreement. “So now we have to trust our jobs to Tycho. Listen, Joe, I don't think …”

“That's right. You don't think.” Joe angrily pushed past her, carrying the heavy bust toward the hatch. “Listen. It goes back with us and that's the end of it. Now let's get going. This fucking thing weighs a ton and a half.”

“Good. I hope you drop it on your foot.” She fell into step behind him, adding under her breath, “I'm going to cold-cock you for this, I swear to God.”

In the next compartment, Honest Yuri had pushed some art books out of a chair and was seated in front of a computer terminal, typing instructions into the AI system that controlled the cargo robot. “The pump and the brewery gear will be on your truck by the time you get outside,” he said without looking up. “I'd invite you to have some coffee, but I have to get back to my work now. I have a new painting to complete before Uchu-Hiko buys this place and kicks me out.”

Mighty Joe carefully placed René Descartes on the floor by the airlock hatch and picked up his gloves. “That's not a foregone conclusion, Yuri,” he said as he shoved his left hand into a gauntlet and locked down the wrist joint. “We're getting the production quota up again. The Korean project is right on schedule. I don't think …”

“That's correct,” Yuri shot back impatiently. “You don't think.” Joe winced, remembering that he'd just leveled this same unkind comment at Annie. “If the Japanese want something,” Yuri continued in a condescending tone, “they're going to get it. That includes this base. Skycorp's going to sell you and me and your girlfriend, too, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

He looked up from his keyboard. “Did I tell you that a wealthy art collector in Nagasaki has offered to buy the Night Gallery? Hmm? Five million dollars. He wants to place it in the rock garden behind his country retreat.”

Annie paused in putting on her own gloves. “Are you going to sell it to him?”

Yuri's eyes went to her face. All of a sudden, he looked less like Peter the Great or Rasputin than an insecure artist, salvaging space junk while trying to pursue his vision in a lonely land. “What do you think I should do?” he said softly. “Five million dollars could buy me a lot of bronze instead of some beat-up pieces of aluminum. And I can't stay here forever.”

Yuri looked away again, staring at the Renoir poster tacked above the work station. “I'll have to go home sooner or later.” He closed his eyes for a second, then looked at Annie again. “Did you like my Night Gallery?”

Annie thought about it for a few seconds. “Yes,” she said at last, with utter sincerity. “It frightened me … but it's the most beautiful thing I've seen on the Moon.”

Then, impulsively, she walked to him, bent over, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear.

He nodded his head gravely as she backed away. There was another long moment of silence. “Yuri,” Joe asked quietly, “when was the last time you sent your dosimeter to Monk for a check?”

Yuri said nothing for a minute. He stared straight ahead at the green type on his computer screen. “Take Mr. Descartes back to the base,” he said finally. “Find a good place for him. It's a gift … and so is the brewer. No charge.”

Mighty Joe looked down at the floor. “Thanks, Yuri,” he mumbled. Then he suddenly looked up as a suspicious thought crossed his mind. “Hey, that pump works okay, doesn't it?”

Yuri's head whipped around. Yuri the tortured artist was gone and Rasputin was back. “Yes!” he yelled. “It
works
! Now go! I have art to make!”

They were in the truck again, driving back through the Night Gallery, with the fuel pump and other gear lashed down on the tandem-trailer, before Annie put forth the thought that had been bothering her. “Joe,” she asked, “what did you mean about the dosimeter?”

Mighty Joe didn't answer at once. His hands gripped the steering column as he gazed straight ahead, ignoring the Night Gallery statues on either side of the trail. “Think about it a second,” he said at last. “Look at this place and ask yourself how much time he's spent out on EVA, building these things.”

Noonan glanced through the window at the statues of the phantom army. “Out here?” she asked. “Well, wouldn't he bring them into the studio and assemble them there?”

“Did you see an airlock big enough for any of this stuff?” he snarled. Annie jerked back, startled by the force of his question. “They weren't made in there! Do you think he just putters around in his studio all day? Chrissakes, Annie, he—!”

Joe stopped himself. He sighed and waited a few seconds for his rage to pass. “The Night Gallery was built right where you see it,” he continued in a calmer tone of voice. “That's the only way he could do it. And not just during the night, either, and not just for a few hours at a time. Now think about it. How much radiation exposure do you think he's received over the last couple of years, working like this? How many REMs you think Yuri's collected?”

She didn't have to think about it for very long. At Descartes Station, at least, there was Monk Walker to keep track of everyone's suit dosimeters, to make certain that no one exceeded OSHA standards for beta and gamma-ray exposure. At Descartes, at least, moondogs on EVA went straight from the ready-room to the vehicles or the Dirt Factory or the mass-driver plant; no one stayed out on the surface, with only their hardsuits between them and the radiation, for very long. But you can't do that if you're assembling the Crucifixion from pieces of scrap metal. The hours, the long hours …

She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, my God …” she whispered. “Cancer.”

“If he doesn't have it now,” Joe said, “he'll have it soon. And he won't do a thing about it either. If he tells anyone … if he shows Monk his dosimeter … they'll make him leave.”

He was silent for a few moments. He listened to Annie quietly sobbing in the seat next to him; then he angrily slapped his fist against the dashboard. “God damn you,” he said. “Stubborn son of a bitch.”

They said very little to each other during the long ride home.

The Importance of Ice (Video.2)

(
From
High Enterprise: A History of the Private Space Industry;
Simon & Schuster Hypertextbooks (version 3.1), New York, 2031
).

(
SCREEN: a Japanese rocket lifting off from a launch pad; a mock-up of a small space probe; images of the first American and Soviet lunar probes; an animated schematic diagram of the trajectory of Japan's first lunar probe on its way to the Moon.
)

SCROLL: The second era of lunar exploration began on January 24, 1990, when Japan's Institute of Space and Aeronautical Sciences launched its Hiten spacecraft to the Moon from the Kagoshima Space Center on the island of Kyushu (
see Chap.1
). The launch of the small, unmanned probe was only barely noticed by the general public of the United States and the Soviet Union, the two global superpowers which had formerly been the only nations to send men and machines to the Moon. Yet the importance of the event was distinctly felt by the space community of the U.S., the U.S.S.R., and the European Common Market, all of whom thought that the Moon somehow belonged to them, yet were uncomfortably aware of the rapid strides Japan was making in space exploration. Suddenly, this complacency was disturbed; the idea that the world's largest economic percapita, nation was sending its first probe to the Moon was unsettling, at the very least.
Press “enter,” please
.