Moonseed (65 page)

All these instruments were improvised from lightweight gear deployed by VDAP to gather real-time data on volcanic events. It was true that what he was investigating here was no volcano, but even volcanology was a young science; he hadn’t had any smarter ideas on what to bring here, to this infestation on the Moon.

He actually enjoyed setting up the science gear: plugging cables into their sockets, testing power couplings and data transmissions. It was simple work, no more complex than putting together a backyard barbecue. Yet it was good for his soul to have some familiar tasks to get through, here amid all this strangeness. He moved between the instruments, the fans of his backpack whirring, the oxygen blowing cool over his face.

When the science station was set up, he stepped back from it, toward the edge of the basalt ledge. He ran his eye over the connections one more time, making sure he hadn’t missed something dumb, checking all the power lights were switched on. He didn’t want to have to come back down here and fix anything.

However, it all looked fine. Now all he had to do was climb out of here, trailing a comms link cable behind him, so the station could talk to the surface, and so to Earth and the shelter.

But there seemed to be a softness, beneath the tread of his right foot.

He looked down sharply. He was maybe four feet from the lip. But suddenly the rock surface was crumbling like wet sand.

The last three or four feet of the ledge just disappeared, in a half-circle extending maybe a yard around him. Under a surface of some kind of duricrust, he realized, this whole ledge was rotten with Moonseed dust. Suddenly he was falling, amid a cloud of dust, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Moonseed sparkled in the light of his torch.

Falling on the Moon:

Dreamlike slowness.

In the first second—the first one or two rattled heartbeats—he only fell through a couple of feet. He fell stiffly, his suit starfishing around him, as if he was in some body-shaped coffin.

Two seconds, and, picking up speed inexorably, he had fallen ten feet. The rope was coiling behind him, still fixed to his waist. How much was there left? Enough to stop him hitting the Moonseed river?

Would he just drag his anchor rock off the lip of the rille after him?

Three seconds, maybe twenty feet, and at last his speed was becoming respectable. No air here, so no terminal velocity; if there was a hole all the way to the center of the Moon you would just keep on falling, accelerating steadily, until—

His feet hit the surface of the Moonseed river.

It worked its way up his legs, to his waist, sluggish ripples spreading out from him. His speed slowed rapidly as the resistance of the dust built up. He could feel the pressure of the dust on his legs, crumpling the inflated pressure suit.

Now he was sinking slowly, as if into treacle. He tried to keep his arms out.

Up to his waist. He couldn’t move his legs.

He would presumably reach some level at which he would be buoyant. The dust was all but a fluid; Archimedes’ principle would work, even here. How deep would that be?
So deep that the pressure of the dust would crack his visor, ramming itself into his mouth and nose and eyes? Or maybe the end would be less spectacular: eventually, the heat trapped by the dust would surely kill him…

The dust was up to his chest now. But his rate of descent was slowing. He tried to kick at the dust; maybe if he could lie on his back he could float like a swimmer on the Dead Sea. But he couldn’t move his legs, not so much as an inch; it was as if his pressure suit was embedded in concrete.

But the rope was taut, pulling at his waist.
Geena.
She was trying to drag him out of here.

He lifted his hands, and grabbed at the rope which snaked out from his waist like an umbilical cord. He could feel the tension; he imagined Geena at the surface, hauling, digging her feet into the regolith.

It was working. He could feel the dust falling away from his legs. Maybe he was out of it already.

He kept pulling, and Geena kept hauling, and he could feel himself rise with dreamy grace. Maybe he was going to live through this after all…

But now he became aware of a new problem.

He couldn’t hear the pumps and fans of his backpack anymore, nor feel the breath of oxygen over his face.

When he looked down at his chest panel, there was nothing but red lights. The heat, the pressure of the dust had killed it.

But right now he felt fine. Better than fine, in fact. He felt alert, confident. When he looked up above, he could see a line of white light, the sunlit upper face of the rille.

Actually, he felt a little high.

He had no doubts, suddenly, that he would live through this; in a couple of minutes he would be with Geena, and then back to the shelter, and Earth, and in a few years it would be no more than a sea story he could share with Jane…

He was flat against the rock face, being dragged upward, almost passively.

Now he was approaching daylight. He was being hauled up the shallow upper slope of the rille, like a swordfish being landed on some Greek island beach.

He seemed to be lying on his back. The sun, a ball of white light, flooded his helmet. He turned his head toward it and let all that pure light pour into his open eyes. It was really quite beautiful. And there were colors, like the kaleidoscopic sparkle of a granite thin slice in his petrological microscope, all around him, the colors of the Moon.

But now there was somebody before him, a snowman figure loping around him as if in a dream. He—or she—reached down and closed something over his face, and the world turned to gold.

He closed his eyes.

Gold, gray, black.

Henry’s backpack was just a ruin. Crushed and overheated. Even his emergency oxygen supply, from the purge tanks, seemed to have failed. He was clearly suffering hypoxia. A few more minutes of this and he would suffer permanent brain damage.

Geena dug hoses out of her backpack. She coupled her own emergency air supply to Henry’s. That would be enough for an hour or so. Then she hooked up more hoses so Henry could share her supply of cooling water; he’d broil before they got back to the shelter otherwise.

She was tempted to peer into his helmet, to see if he was breathing, if he was responding. But it wouldn’t do any good. What could she do, take off his gloves to see if his fingernails were blue?

She pulled him up. He half-stood, inert, like a statue, so stiff was his suit. She managed to get his arm over her shoulder, her arm around his waist. Under lunar gravity he only weighed a couple of pounds, but he was awkward, a stiff, massive shape. As she hauled him back toward the Rover, his feet dragged in the regolith.

It was going to be a race back to the shelter, to get Henry inside before that emergency pack expired. At least driving back would be easier. They only had to follow their own tracks back, to be sure of their destination.

But if anything else went wrong—if a fault developed with her own backpack, or the thirty-year-old Rover—it was quite possible neither of them would live through this.

She tried to hurry, forcing Henry forward, across the slippery regolith.

47

Henry became conscious again, long before she got him back to the shelter.

“We have to get back,” were his first words.

“I know. We’re going.”

“I have to start analyzing the data.” He looked at the hoses which snaked between their backpacks. “Thanks for saving my life.”

“Pleasure.”

“I don’t think my fall affected the station I set up.”

“You checked as you fell to your doom, did you?”

“Yes,” he said, without irony.

They bounced across the surface of the Moon, back to the shelter.

She parked as close as she could to the shelter. It wasn’t easy to get inside; linked by the hoses with their fragile couplings, they had to move like Siamese twins, taking care over every step.

Once inside, she checked the shelter’s air and took off her helmet and gloves. She could feel a gush of moist heat escaping from the joints at her wrists and neck; it was a relief to shuck off the suit and move freely.

Henry went straight to work. He set up his pc, checked the data link to the remote station he’d set up in the rille, and
started tapping at his keyboard. And he prepared some of his samples on slides for his ridiculous high-school microscope.

He worked feverishly. She knew Henry of old; in this mood, whatever his physical state, he wouldn’t be dissuaded. It used to irritate her. In fact she thought of Henry as a workaholic. Well, maybe he was. But right now, she realized, whatever understanding Henry achieved today, here on the Moon, might be crucial for them all.

So she let him work, and contented herself with a health check; he didn’t seem to have been permanently harmed by his brush with the Moonseed.

She tended to her equipment. That pesky Moon dust had continued to etch into her gear, she found. It was now ground deeply into the fabric of her suit, and even when she tried to scrape it out with her fingertips she only succeeded in working it into her fingers and under her nails. The metal seals at wrist and neck were getting quite badly corroded. And the handle of Henry’s geology hammer had had its rubber coating worn away to bare metal.

She recharged her backpack. She took a look at Henry’s, but it was ruined beyond her capability to repair it here. When they next left the shelter they would have to do it bound together once more.

She made some food. A hot drink: chamomile tea, one of Henry’s favorites. She made him drink and eat, and he complied, but he didn’t seem to notice what he was being fed.

She sipped her own tea. Even freshly made, it didn’t seem hot enough. One of the old clichés of lunar travel, she thought: water boils at lower temperature in low pressure. Well, it was a fact of physics, and here she was living it out.

Still, the tea was a comfort.

Afterward, she pulled on her sleeping bag and lay down. She ought to try to get some sleep, she knew; God alone knew what the next day was going to bring. She considered filling her bag with water from the tank. In the cir
cumstances, though, the drizzle of radiation seemed the least of her worries.

She closed her eyes, and listened to the tapping of Henry’s fingers on the keypad of his laptop, his characteristic, soft, under-the-breath mutterings—frustration, surprise, satisfaction. Just like old times, she thought. As she drifted, the drizzle of key taps seemed to stretch out, as if Henry was some scientifically-minded robot, slowly running down.

Maybe she slept.

Henry tapped her on the shoulder. He was hollow-eyed, but he seemed healthy enough. He was chewing on a rice cake.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“But you’re wide awake.”

“I am now.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You aren’t working.”

He shrugged. “I think I’m done for now. Monica Beus sent me another E-mail. Smuggled it past the NASA smiley-face censors.”

“And?”

“And what? The world is coming to an end. Where do you want me to start?”

The event in Scotland, its scale unprecedented in the lifetime of the human species, had shaken the world on every level—physical, political, economic. Governments were collapsing all over. Someone had taken out the U.N. building in New York with a backpack nuke. Britain had invaded the Republic of Ireland, seeking living space.

The NASA satellite pictures were scary. White infrared blurs that were whole populations, running. Black scars showed where thousands, millions, had died. People were fleeing in herds, seeking safety where none existed anywhere on Earth, all dignity gone.

After the collapse of the international order, wars had flared all over, in every troublespot you could think of, nuclear, chemical, biological, conventional. But it hadn’t taken long for the collapse and general chaos to reach a point where large-scale warfare was impossible, and the conflicts descended into low-level, low-tech—but nonetheless bloody—local brushfire.

“Good news,” Henry said humorlessly. “Famine is killing more people than war. Oh, and NASA centers have been coming under attack.”

“Why, for Christ’s sake?”

He shrugged. “You got to blame somebody.”

He was talking too fast, his mood strange.

She pushed her way out of her sleeping bag. “Show me what you have.”

He brought over his laptop. The screen showed a sphere in false colors, yellow, orange and red, slowly rotating, semitransparent so she could see to its core.

He asked, “What does this look like?”

Under a near-intact crust, the sphere was riddled with pockets and chambers. The core was picked out by a hard, dark blue knot. “A rotten apple.”

“It’s the deep structure of the Moon.”

“Right.”

He explained how he’d produced this image.

The Moon was a quiet planet.

It wasn’t just the lack of air. The Moon had some seismic activity. In fact the heaviest quakes were imposed by the Earth, every month, “deep forming Moonquakes” caused by the dark tides Earth raised in the rocks of the waterless Moon. And there were occasional “shallow Moonquakes”—smaller, isolated events, of which nobody knew the cause. There were even occasional landslides, caused by impacts or quakes.

But the Moon’s seismic violence was only a hundred-millionth part of the energy that racked the Earth.

On the airless Moon there could be no sound, of course.
But the Moon, paradoxically, transmitted sound well, through its solid structure. The Moon had “high Q,” Henry told her. That meant that when you hit the Moon, as he had done with his implanted charges, it would ring like a bell. And if you set a seismometer on the surface, it could pick up your footsteps as you lumbered away in your spacesuit.

What all this meant was that Henry’s networks of seismometers were a powerful tool for unraveling the meaning of the rocky waves that passed through the Moon’s interior.

“…I have a database and analysis program here called BOB II,” he said. He brought up lists of commands. “A neat piece of work. Command-drive, interactive. It’s adapted from the data analysis suite VDAP uses—the volcano disaster people—for the real-time analysis of time series data of seismic events in crisis situations. And—”