The Green Hills of Earth Read online

  «Sure, sure. But you know what instruments I've got; you know about how well I can handle them. Get me a better answer.»

  «I'll try.» Weinstein called back four hours later. «Jake? Here's the dope: You planned to blast back to match your predicted speed, then make side corrections for position. Orthodox but uneconomical. Instead I had Mabel solve for it as one maneuver.»

  «Good!»

  «Not so fast. It saves fuel but not enough. You can't possibly get back in your old groove and then match Terminal without dumping.»

  Pemberton let it sink in, then said, «I'll tell Kelly.»

  «Wait a minute, Jake. Try this. Start from scratch.»

  «Huh?»

  «Treat it as a brand-new problem. Forget about the orbit on your tape. With your present course, speed, and position, compute the cheapest orbit to match with Terminal's. Pick a new groove.»

  Pemberton felt foolish. «I never thought of that.»

  «Of course not. With the ship's little one-lung calculator it'd take you three weeks to solve it. You set to record?»

  «Sure.»

  «Here's your data.» Weinstein started calling it off.

  When they had checked it, Jake said, «That'll get me there?»

  «Maybe. If the data you gave me is up to your limit of accuracy; if you can follow instructions as exactly as a robot, if you can blast off and make contact so precisely that you don't need side corrections, then you might squeeze home. Maybe. Good luck, anyhow.» The wavering reception muffled their goodbyes.

  Jake signaled Kelly. «Don't jettison, Captain. Have your passengers strap down. Stand by to blast. Minus fourteen minutes.»

  «Very well, Pilot.»

  The new departure made and checked, he again had time to spare. He took out his unfinished letter, read it, then tore it up.

  «Dearest Phyllis,» he started again, «I've been doing some hard thinking this trip and have decided that I've just been stubborn. What am I doing way out here? I like my home. I like to see my wife.

  «Why should I risk my neck and your peace of mind to herd junk through the sky? Why hang around a telephone waiting to chaperone fatheads to the Moon – numbskulls who couldn't pilot a rowboat and should have stayed at home in the first place?

  «Money, of course. I've been afraid to risk a change. I won't find another job that will pay half as well, but, if you are game, I'll ground myself and we'll start over. All my love,

  «Jake»

  He put it away and went to sleep, to dream that an entire troop of Junior Rocketeers had been quartered in his control room.

  The close-up view of the Moon is second only to the space-side view of the Earth as a tourist attraction; nevertheless Pemberton insisted that all passengers strap down during the swing around to Terminal. With precious little fuel for the matching maneuver, he refused to hobble his movements to please sightseers.

  Around the bulge of the Moon, Terminal came into sight – by radar only, for the ship was tail foremost. After each short braking blast Pemberton caught a new radar fix, then compared his approach with a curve he had plotted from Weinstein's figures – with one eye on the time, another on the 'scope, a third on the plot, and a fourth on his fuel gauges.

  «Well, Jake?» Kelly fretted. «Do we make it?»

  «How should I know? You be ready to dump.» They had agreed on liquid oxygen as the cargo to dump, since it could be let to boil out through the outer valves, without handling.

  «Don't say it, Jake.»

  «Damn it – I won't if I don't have to.» He was fingering his controls again; the blast chopped off his words. When it stopped, the radio maneuvering circuit was calling him.

  »Flying Dutchman , Pilot speaking,» Jake shouted back.

  «Terminal Control – Supra reports you short on fuel.»

  «Right.»

  «Don't approach. Match speeds outside us. We'll send a transfer ship to refuel you and pick up passengers.»

  «I think I can make it.»

  «Don't try it. Wait for refueling.»

  «Quit telling me how to pilot my ship!» Pemberton switched off the circuit, then stared at the board, whistling morosely. Kelly filled in the words in his mind: «Casey said to the fireman, 'Boy, you better jump, cause two locomotives are agoing to bump!' »

  «You going in the slip anyhow, Jake?»

  «Mmm – no, blast it. I can't take a chance of caving in the side of Terminal, not with passengers aboard. But I'm not going to match speeds fifty miles outside and wait for a piggyback.»

  He aimed for a near miss just outside Terminal's orbit, conning by instinct, for Weinstein's figures meant nothing by now. His aim was good; he did not have to waste his hoarded fuel on last minute side corrections to keep from hitting Terminal. When at last he was sure of sliding safely on past if unchecked, he braked once more. Then, as he started to cut off the power, the jets coughed, sputtered, and quit.

  The Flying Dutchman floated in space, five hundred yards outside Terminal, speeds matched.

  Jake switched on the radio. «Terminal – stand by for my line. I'll warp her in.»

  He had filed his report, showered, and was headed for the post office to radiostat his letter, when the bullhorn summoned him to the Commodore-Pilot's office. Oh, oh, he told himself, Schacht has kicked to the Brass – I wonder just how much stock that bliffy owns? And there's that other matter – getting snotty with Control.

  He reported stiffly. «First Pilot Pemberton, sir.»

  Commodore Soames looked up. «Pemberton – oh, yes. You hold two ratings, space-to-space and airless-landing.»

  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 m
y 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 —

  «Lieutenant Dahlquist, reporting to the Executive Officer.» Colonel Towers looked up. «Ah, John Ezra. Sit down, Johnny. Cigarette?»

  Johnny sat down, mystified but nattered. He admired Colonel Towers, for his brilliance, his ability to dominate, and for his battle record. Johnny had no battle record; he had been commissioned on completing his doctor's degree in nuclear physics and was now junior bomb officer of Moon Base.

  The Colonel wanted to talk politics; Johnny was puzzled. Finally Towers had come to the point; it was not safe (so he said) to leave control of the world in political hands; power must be held by a scientifically selected group. In short – the Patrol.

  Johnny was startled rather than shocked. As an abstract idea, Towers' notion sounded plausible. The League of Nations had folded up; what would keep the United Nations from breaking up, too, and thus lead to another World War. «And you know how bad such a war would be, Johnny.»

  Johnny agreed. Towers said he was glad that Johnny got the point. The senior bomb officer could handle the work, but it was better to have both specialists.

  Johnny sat up with a jerk. «You are going to do something about it?» He had thought the Exec was just talking.

  Towers smiled. «We're not politicians; we don't just talk. We act.»

  Johnny whistled. «When does this start?»

  Towers nipped a switch. Johnny was startled to hear his own voice, then identified the recorded conversation as having taken place in the junior officers' messroom. A political argument he remembered, which he had walked out on ... a good thing, too! But being spied on annoyed him.

  Towers switched it off. «We have acted,» he said. «We know who is safe and who isn't. Take Kelly – « He waved at the loudspeaker. «Kelly is politically unreliable. You noticed he wasn't at breakfast?»

  «Huh? I thought he was on watch.»

  «Kelly's watch-standing days are over. Oh, relax; he isn't hurt.»

  Johnny thought this over. «Which list am I on?» he asked. «Safe or unsafe?»

  «Your name has a question mark after it. But I have said all along that you could be depended on.» He grinned engagingly. «You won't make a liar of me, Johnny?»

  Dahlquist didn't answer; Towers said sharply, «Come now – what do you think of it? Speak up.»

  «Well, if you ask me, you've bitten off more than you can chew. While it's true that Moon Base controls the Earth, Moon Base itself is a sitting duck for a ship. One bomb – blooie !»


  Towers picked up a message form and handed it over; it read: I HAVE YOUR CLEAN LAUNDRY – ZACK. «That means every bomb in the Trygve Lie has been put out of commission. I have reports from every ship we need worry about.» He stood up. «Think it over and see me after lunch. Major Morgan needs your help right away to change control frequencies on the bombs.»

  «The control frequencies?»

  «Naturally. We don't want the bombs jammed before they reach their targets.»

  «What? You said the idea was to prevent war.»

  Towers brushed it aside. «There won't be a war – just a psychological demonstration, an unimportant town or two. A little bloodletting to save an all-out war. Simple arithmetic.»

  He put a hand on Johnny's shoulder. «You aren't squeamish, or you wouldn't be a bomb officer. Think of it as a surgical operation. And think of your family.»

  Johnny Dahlquist had been thinking of his family. «Please, sir, I want to see the Commanding Officer.»

  Towers frowned. «The Commodore is not available. As you know, I speak for him. See me again – after lunch.»

  The Commodore was decidedly not available; the Commodore was dead. But Johnny did not know that.

  Dahlquist walked back to the messroom, bought cigarettes, sat down and had a smoke. He got up, crushed out the butt, and headed for the Base's west airlock. There he got into his space suit and went to the lockmaster. «Open her up, Smitty.»

  The marine looked surprised. «Can't let anyone out on the surface without word from Colonel Towers, sir. Hadn't you heard?»

  «Oh, yes! Give me your order book.» Dahlquist took it, wrote a pass for himself, and signed it «by direction of Colonel Towers.» He added, «Better call the Executive Officer and check it.»

  The lockmaster read it and stuck the book in his pocket. «Oh, no, Lieutenant. Your word's good.»

  «Hate to disturb the Executive Officer, eh? Don't blame you.» He stepped in, closed the inner door, and waited for the air to be sucked out.

  Out on the Moon's surface he blinked at the light and hurried to the track-rocket terminus; a car was waiting. He squeezed in, pulled down the hood, and punched the starting button. The rocket car flung itself at the hills, dived through and came out on a plain studded with projectile rockets, like candles on a cake. Quickly it dived into a second tunnel through more hills. There was a stomach-wrenching deceleration and the car stopped at the underground atom-bomb armory.