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Reversion

a Novel by Varkel
Fall, 2002



Chapter 21: The Landing


"Back off!" he commanded, rising to his feet.

He was just out of reach, and the pistol barrel was aligned with
my vulnerable face.  The best time for decisive action is early
in a confrontation -- if you dare.  I didn't, not yet.  So I
backed up enough for him to exit the suit locker.

"You can't be alone!" I declared.

He stepped out, eyes scanning rapidly, settling momentarily on
Alice, who was crouched beside her flight seat.  But the pistol
didn't waver.

A too-familiar voice behind him noted, "Astute as ever!" and
Harrison Cleaver made his appearance in the hatchway.  He stepped
around the hulking Bertie and smiled at me, a dapper figure in
tie and tailored suit.  Bertie wore a green jacket, but if
Cleaver had donned green to enter the plant, he had since cast it
aside.

I said dryly, "Now I see the reason for the riot in the parking
lot."

"Quite so," he smirked.  "Tim, your hillbilly defenders are a
joke.  You didn't hire enough professional guards, which is
evidence of your amateurism, something I'll help you fix.  For
now, shouldn't you sit down in the pilot's seat and fly this
thing?  We _are_ airborne, are we not?"

"We're higher already than you've ever been before.  I presume
you have another team in Karl's ship?"

He only smiled.  "Tim, first off let's get clear on the issue of
control.  Just now I have the upper hand.  If you don't behave
accordingly, Bertie might have to harm your pretty assistant."
His smile widened, directed across the mostly empty, 30-foot
compartment, intended ultimately for passenger seats or inanimate
cargo, to Alice.  "I regret, dear, that I have forgotten your
name, if I ever knew it.  Please enlighten me."

She produced the distinct sniff that I have heard so often, her
general reaction to lesser mortals.  "Perhaps you recall painted
boobs."

"Ah, yes, indeed!  Of course!  You are Miss Alice Edgeworth,
Tim's half-sister.  I am most pleased to renew your
acquaintance."  His voice hardened.  "Bertie, keep a close watch
on her.  This is a daring and resourceful female."

"I know that," said Bertie ironically.

"Thank you both," she responded gravely.

Bertie added in a strained voice, "She was with Rosalind this
morning."

Cleaver chuckled admiringly.  "How interesting that both host and
hostess have the special knowledge!"  His attention returned to
me.  "Once we have negotiated an acceptable arrangement, Tim, I
shall of course delegate control to you, but for now ... _fly
this thing_!"  His finger pointed imperiously to the pilot's
chair.

Bertie stood ten feet away, such that I was in his line of fire
to Alice, meaning that he might shoot either of us with
comparable ease.  She had, unfortunately in these circumstances,
disdained a diamondoid shell for her tender body.  So I turned
and strolled as nonchalantly as I could back to my seat.
Apparently Bertie had learned his lesson from this morning; he
kept well away from her.  She might be safer also in her seat,
especially if I used the attitude controls against our captors,
so I motioned for her to sit as I passed.

I buckled my own harness immediately.  From the corner of my eye
I saw her do the same, indeed a smart girl!

Cleaver leaned over the back of my chair, studying the mechanical
instruments.  "What's wrong with that altimeter?" he asked.
"It's off scale!"

"That shouldn't surprise you," I answered.  "It only indicates to
25,000 feet."

"How high do you suppose we are?"

I restored the display on my retinas and answered, "Just about 96
miles."

"96?"  He shook his head reproachfully.  "Tim, who're you trying
to kid?"

I looked at the projected curve.  "Ask me again in ten minutes
and it'll be 540 miles."

He slipped sideways around the chair and studied my face.  "You
can't be serious!"

"An hour after that we'll be 24,000 miles up."

He stared at me and took a deep breath.

I asked, "What do you want, Cleaver?"

He straightened his shoulders and crossed his arms.  "Mona told
you -- though the deal she offered is no longer on the table, of
course."

"Why not?  You can still go to the feds."

"And discover a billion dollar NSA operation unknown even to
Eisenhower?"  He laughed confidently.  "You can sling horse
manure with the best of them, Tim."

"Thank you."

"Of course my threat was also a bluff.  I know the feds.  They
would no more give me a piece of this than of the White House.
But important as a spaceship may be, I think it's the least of
your discoveries."

"Do you!"

"Not that I mean," -- he gestured around him -- "to disparage this
remarkable, ah, vehicle.  Whatever our altitude may be, from the
elevator effect and slight buffeting we felt earlier, one may
conclude that we no longer occupy your factory in Baylor.  I have
a lot of questions about this ship, you may be sure, not
excluding the reason for its angularity and mirror finish -- was
all that extravagance necessary?  But I think we should first
discuss the full scope of your endeavors, Tim."

I grunted.  "You couldn't understand them."

"You might be surprised.  But one discovery interests me in
particular."

"I know: biological control."

"Yes, exactly.  I am 58 years old, Tim.  I have pains,
intermittent but most disabling, that the doctors think derive
from incipient prostate cancer.  I believe you can fix them."

He probably strove for a poker face, but the desperate hope was
evident in his eyes.  I began to understand why he would risk his
own wealthy ass to stow away on something so wildly improbable as
a purported spaceship in 1954.  Nevertheless I asked, "Why should
I fix them, Cleaver?"

"Out of your strong sense of altruism?"

"At least as strong as your own, you mean?"

He grimaced.  "Because I'll give you half my fortune, make you my
heir."

I smiled slightly.  "I already control more money than you do."

His grimace became a snarl.  "Because unless you promise to
deliver, Bertie will shoot the arms off your pretty sister one at
the time."

I nodded slowly.  "At last the real Harrison Cleaver makes his
appearance."

"Wait until _you_ have prostate cancer!  A man with that disease
is better off dead."

I shook my head and said softly, "It will never bother me,
Harrison."

"No, I suppose not," he grated.  "Anyone who can do to his body
as you have done can probably avoid death itself."

"Indeed!"  I smiled contemptuously.  "And now you want my promise
under duress to furnish you the same advantages, is that it?"

He took a deep breath.  "We do have a problem there."

"_You_ do.  I can remove your apparent control of this ship any
time I wish."

His eyes widened.  "Then take your hand off that stick!"  He
turned to call Bertie but desisted when my hand dropped to my
knee.  Instead he grasped the back of my chair over my shoulder
as if expecting turbulence.  Having braced himself, he studied me
and the unmoving attitude control stick for a moment before
asking, "How _do_ you control this thing?"

"The method is very personal, Cleaver.  Neither you nor Bertie
can learn it."

"Oh, yeah?  Show me."

What a remarkable request!  I felt an irresistible urge to show
off, however irresponsibly.  I tapped 47, the preset code for
STOP THRUST.  Below us the hissing died.  The familiar
acceleration, indistinguishable from gravity according to
Einstein, faded away.  It felt exactly as if the bottom had
fallen out of the ship.  Sudden weightlessness may be the most
appalling experience of all, even though few ancestors who
encountered it lived to pass along their terror.  Cleaver made a
strangling sound and his knuckles whitened as he took a death
grip on my chair frame.  I found it strikingly uncomfortable
myself!

At least I was strapped into my seat.  I managed a superior
smile.  "How do you like zero G?"

"Gak, gak --" he stuttered, huge eyes staring.  I would have
laughed if my own belly hadn't seemed to float above my head.
Behind us I heard a masculine moan of horror.

Forcing hand to knee, I keyed 74, preset for RESUME THRUST.  The
hissing recovered almost immediately, along with our weight.
Something heavy and metallic clattered on the floor.  Cleaver
fell to his knees with a painful grimace.  An instant later,
judging by the sound, a bag of potatoes thudded behind us.

I released my straps and rotated enough to look around.  Bertie
sprawled, limbs spread awkwardly, ten feet behind us, peering up
with a stunned scowl.  I had last seen him standing in a combat
crouch.  Presumably when his weight departed, he had straightened
up, thereby imparting just enough upward velocity for him to
drift toward the ceiling, while inadvertently releasing his
pistol.  I'll give him credit for a fast recovery.  Despite
having dropped flat when I restored weight, probably on a
shoulder or even his head, he managed while I watched to scramble
across the floor, retrieve the fallen weapon and rise on his
knees to cover me.

Cleaver got to his feet, absently rubbing his knees with one hand
while the other maintained its grip on my chair.  "What did you
do?"

"Cut thrust.  Can you imagine the effect of varying its
direction?"

He stared.

I added, "Or of cutting it, then reapplying it at twice the
magnitude?"

He gulped.  After a moment he shook his head, "But Tim, I truly
am desperate."

I nodded.  "Enough to steal a ship, I see.  But are you desperate
enough to give it back?"

His eyes narrowed as he considered the implications.  He took a
deep breath.  "Yes, I am."  He looked up behind me, "Bertie, give
Tim your gun."

"Not on your life!"

I turned to see Bertie once again in a combat crouch, except that
now his feet were restless, shuffling slightly as if feeling out
the floor, reminding me of childhood strolls atop railroad rails.
The pistol still centered on me.  The man's face was twisted in
some strong emotion.

"What?" asked Cleaver, dumbfounded as if a chair had refused his
request to sit.

Bertie demanded, "What just happened?  Where are we?"  The weapon
never wavered despite restless feet.

Cleaver was willing to pacify the chair.  "Can you tell him,
Tim?"

"140 miles above Earth in that direction."  I pointed to the moon
centered in the viewport above us.

"'140?'  Bullshit!  I want to know where we're going."

"To the moon, Bertie.  We'll be there in a about four hours."

"Not me, you crazy sons of bitches," he said between clenched
teeth -- and he shot me.

I registered three instant effects: a burst of flame from his
hand, a blow in the side like a prizefighter's punch and
indescribable violence to ears in the enclosed space.  It was a
large caliber pistol.  I was knocked sideways against the control
panel -- but used it immediately to recover.  I had one glimpse of
Cleaver's staring eyes before I could straighten up.

Bertie's aim had shifted, presumably toward Alice, but his second
shot was premature.  I saw the second flash and from the corner
of my eye a spark where his bullet struck the wall to my left.
Its likely effect upon our pressure integrity would have
immediately concerned me except that Bertie had unaccountably
already covered his face with one hand.  The pistol flew away as
he brought the other hand to his face also.  He sagged forward
onto his knees, from there to the floor.

I looked at Cleaver, who stared with open mouth at his fallen
minion.  When I finally turned to Alice, I found her returning my
glance with a slight smile and wet lips.  But her eye lowered to
my torso.  Her mouth formed words of distress that I could hear
only by virtue of the instrument in my ear.  "Tim, you've been
shot!"

A hand to my side came away with a spot of blood.  So I had, but
I knew it was only superficial, thanks to the diamondoid shell
just beneath the skin.  I asked, "What happened to Bertie?"

"I spat in his stupid face."  She released her straps and was
immediately at my side, pulling up my shirttails.  "How bad is
it?"

"Just a scratch," I reported impatiently.  Bertie, now red faced,
had flopped over on his back, hands thrown wide.  I asked, "Are
we losing pressure?"

Momentarily her eyes were introspective.  Her retinal display was
set to reflect life support.  "Maybe.  It'll take a minute or two
to know for sure."

"What happened to Bertie?"

"Full strength DISINHIBITOR.  He's dead, Tim."

"You spat in his face from six feet away?"

Her eyes sparkled.  "It's a pretty good close range weapon,
wouldn't you say?"

"My god, yes!"  I took a breath.  "But how fast can you weaken
it?  I don't want to kill Cleaver."

"Why not?"

She asked the question seriously.  I shook my head.  "Let's try
to minimize irrevocable acts, please.  I think we can likely make
him our man.  But first we have something more important.  Let me
hold you up to that puncture."

I decreased thrust to a quarter G, enough for good traction while
reducing her weight to 30 pounds or so, easily born atop my
shoulders.

"One dick was smashed through the side of the ship," she soon
reported in my ear.  Her actual voice was lost in the apparent
silence of a shocked aural nerve.  "It must have exploded out
there.  Iron filings and your finishing compound have closed the
exit hole tight enough to hold against the internal pressure.  I
doubt it's leaking at all, and the dick field has enough overlap
to cover the gap.  We were lucky, but what about the other one?"

I blinked, turning our bodies to look around.  "What other one?"

"The first bullet ricocheted off your side and struck just above
the control panel.  Your shirt and skin may not have slowed it
much."

I put her down and checked on this one myself.  The bullet had
left a deep gash in a socket, apparently with the trivial result
of misaligning the supported dick.  I stooped and picked up a
deformed lump of lead and copper.  This one might have killed me
were it not for Clara.  I had to chuckle, recalling that I would
never have reached this lofty predicament in the first place
without Clara!  Which reminded me: I restored full thrust.

The silence was beginning to weaken.  I straightened up to meet
Cleaver's eyes.  He asked, his voice a distant sound, "What ...
what happened to Bertie?"

"He's dead."

"B-but ... she only _spat_ on him!"

"Not so _only_, Harrison."  To Alice I said, "Had enough time?"

"Yes."  Her mouth began to work.

I told him, "You'll have to kiss her."

"I ... I ..."  He stared at her as she approached him.  "She'll
_kill_ me!"

"That's all a pirate can expect, Cleaver.  But no, she won't kill
you.  I prefer you alive and able to manage your affairs.  Kiss
her."

"I know about her kisses!"

I leered.  "Did you ever hear anyone complain?"

"Wh-what will it do to me?"

"I said I _preferred_ you alive, but believe me, disposal of a
body is not a problem here!"

He shivered and allowed Alice to plant one on his mouth.  His
lips glistened when she withdrew.

She sighed.  "I think that's the first time I ever failed to
enjoy kissing a man."

"Come on, Cleaver, give me hand."

Together we dragged Bertie's very limp body to the airlock door.

"Wh-what ..." Cleaver began, then subsided.

"Finish your question."

He shrugged impassively.  His face had relaxed.

"Did you want to ask what I mean to do with him?"

"It doesn't matter."  He seemed mildly surprised.  "Little seems
to matter any more."

"No."  I smiled.  "Nothing saps ambition like DISINHIBITOR.  At
this moment we are driving toward the moon's trailing edge at a
speed of more than 2000 miles per hour.  What I mean to do with
Bertie is to space him."

The man's face showed mild interest.  "You mean ..."

"Right.  Cast him adrift in space.  You'll note that this is less
than Earth's escape velocity.  He'll arc out into space and burn
up in the atmosphere when he returns."

"He may have about seven grand in his wallet."

"So what?  I don't think either of us needs it."

I opened the door.  We pushed him into the little room beyond and
sealed it.  I keyed the outer hatch open with a huff of escaping
air.  Through the porthole in the door I could see that Bertie
remained crumpled on the airlock floor.  Lesson learned: you need
zero-G to expel airlock contents merely by releasing the air.

"Sit down over there against the wall," I told Cleaver, "and hold
on to that cleat."

As he obeyed I returned to my own seat.  En route I picked up
Bertie's pistol, a .45 automatic.  No wonder it had knocked me
over!

"Better buckle up," I told Alice, pointing to her chair and
snapping my own clasps.  When she was secure, I rotated the
attitude stick counterclockwise.  A different hiss sounded and
the ship began to spin with increasing speed about its vertical
axis.  In a moment Bertie's body flashed across the viewport,
thrown out by centrifugal force.  Opposite rotation of the stick
soon rendered the remote stars stationary again.

My chemical captive sat Indian-style against the wall, one hand
still on the cleat, staring ahead at nothing.  I called, "Take a
nap, Cleaver."  He immediately closed his eyes.

"That's powerful stuff," I commented to Alice.

"It won't work on me," she retorted with a twinkle.

"I don't need it for you."

Another voice interrupted at that moment: Clara's in an anxious
tone.  "Tim, may I ask if you are again in control of your ship?"

Of course all this time the radio link had been open!  I wondered
for a millisecond what Jerome Kelliam and Maryanne had made of
the recent fracas.

"Yes, I am, Clara.  That is, _we_ are."

"Were you actually shot?"

"Nicked, I should say" -- for consumption by the people of
Fernworks.  Then I thought of a better solution.

"Clara, excuse me a moment.  Are you there, Jerome?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" was the fervent and immediate response.  We were
not yet far enough apart for speed-of-light to delay
transmissions appreciably.

"Did Maryanne report on the condition of the factory?"

"Yes, sir.  And Wilbur has finished his search.  Maryanne says
the place looks the same, except the two mirror assemblies --
ships?  I guess they have to be, don't they!  Anyway, they're
gone.  Wilbur didn't find any intruders."

"Have you inspected the parking lot recently?"

"Yeah.  Some of my neighbors are camping in it.  Would've been
more but the Crutchmoor boys picked a fight and got run off."

"Very good.  I don't expect any more trouble with strangers,
Jerome."

"How about you, sir?  Uh, ah, can I ask where you are?"

I thought back over the conversation with my pirates.  I'd told
Bertie we were going to the moon, hadn't I!

"You heard enough to know, Jerome."

"Yes, sir.  Can I ask you one question?"

"Go ahead."

"What does the world look like?"  His voice was charged with
emotion.  Another Heinlein reader, perhaps?

I chuckled.  "We put the best viewports on _top_ of the ships,
Jerome.  I'll take pictures on the way home."

"I sure want to see them!"

"You shall.  For now I'm going to shut down the radio link.  Go
home and get some sleep, but monitor it again tomorrow morning,
if you don't mind."

"Yes, sir.  I'll be here, you bet!"

"Good night, then."  With that I keyed the remote-control command
to disable the loudspeaker in my office.

When the sensors reported execution, I said, "Clara?"

"Here, Tim, breathlessly waiting."

I chuckled.  "Please keep breathing.  Have you heard anything
from Karl and Rosalind?" -- hardly likely without me hearing too.

"I heard Rosalind complain about attackers about a minute before
you discovered your own.  Where did they hide, Tim?"

"But nothing since?"

"Not a peep."

So I tendered her a complete report on recent _Ship One_ events,
concluding with, "Alice and I are pressing on.  We'll reach
midpoint turnover in 105 minutes.  In the meantime please listen
closely for any reports of odd sightings or crashes."

"I shall, Tim," Clara promised.  I heard her sigh, but when she
spoke again her tone was teasing.  "Alice, do you still want to
try zero-G sex at midpoint?"

I perked up.  Alice had wanted to do _what_?

"No," answered my companion, "I don't think so.  The taste Tim
furnished a few minutes ago was about as far from sexy as you can
get."

Clara laughed deep in her throat.  "You _will_ try it sooner or
later, as I know very well.  You only need acclimatization."

"Maybe so, but we won't get much of _that_ climate on this
voyage."

I contributed, "One-sixth G, now, may be different."

Clara sniffed.  "There's very little novelty in one-sixth G."

"The first people to fuck on the moon?  My dear, where's your
historical appreciation?"

* * *

We accelerated at a steady thrust of 1.1G until half way to the
moon.  The point where acceleration must change to deceleration
was the _turnover midpoint_ of the trip, about 120,000 miles from
Earth.  When I keyed REVERSE, my display indicated a speed of
over 140,000 miles per hour toward the moon, now definitely
larger.  Cleaver was asleep but still holding his cleat.  If he
didn't twitch he should be all right.

REVERSE was a preset list of commands that shut down the main
steam supply, used the attitude jets to turn the ship exactly
upside down around its roll axis, then resumed the same thrust,
now directed toward the moon instead of Earth.  The maneuver
executed quickly and played havoc with my inner ears, although
shaking my head soon dispelled the disorientation.  My display
revealed success.  We were now on course to arrive a thousand
miles above the moon's dark eastern limb, retaining a residual
velocity of 3,600 mph, enough to enter a circular orbit at that
lunar altitude.

I turned to Alice.  "Are you all right?"

She was looking over her shoulder at Cleaver.  He had fallen away
from the wall but risen on all fours, eyes bulging, quacking
curiously like a duck.  Though the maneuvers upcoming in 100
minutes should be much less violent, I nevertheless needed to
strap him down in his corner.

Our precipitate departure had precluded the installation of extra
seating, not that we had expected a use for it so soon!  The
discomfort Cleaver faced was richly deserved, I thought.  Even so
I departed my chair, helped him settle again between his cleats,
secured him with cargo webbing and left him with a bottle of coke
and a pack of Nabs, chewing contentedly.

"Why don't you space him?" asked Alice when I returned to my
seat.

"Do you offer that as a serious proposal?"

"He could obviously ruin our plans, Tim.  Tell me why that
doesn't concern you."

I shook my head.  "He desperately needs something from me, and
he's a businessman who endorses the morality of trading.  I'll
give him a cure for his cancer and even slow his aging.  In
exchange he can be very useful to us."

She sneered.  "For sex parties?"

"No doubt.  But I was thinking ahead to what we'll need when
Fernworks expands and puts ever-increasing numbers of people in
space.  None of us has experience with large unspecialized
organizations.  Cleaver has it in spades.  And sooner or later,
probably sooner with our weak security awareness, we'll come to
the attention of the government again.  One of Cleaver's
strengths is clever manipulation of bureaucrats; he made a
fortune that way during World War Two."

She studied me ironically.  "How well do you think he'll serve us
when he no longer has pains in the groin?"

I grinned evilly.  "Look up _Remote Control_ under DISINHIBITOR."

She gasped and her eyes widened.  "Tim, I hate to believe you'd
do something like that."

"You've already run across it, have you?"  I chuckled at her nod
but snarled, "Cleaver would do it to me in a minute, if he could!
If he had a set of codes that would inflict agony,
unconsciousness or death upon me by sound or radio, he'd be
delighted."

Her lip curled.  "You want such a slave?"

"Of course not.  If I have to exercise it, my understanding of
his character will have been proven invalid.  I'd use it only as
necessary to protect us."

She shook her head.  "That's what they said about nuclear bombs.
You've seen how _that_ turned out!"  She sighed.  "At least
you're not a government.  Not yet."

I finally realized what had been bothering me.  The lighting in
our compartment was bluer and much stronger.  I looked up and my
mouth fell open.  The spherical blue half Earth, streaked with
blinding clouds, hung huge over us, many times larger than the
moon when last seen.

Looking at it, I felt something of the emotion the Apollo
astronauts had reported in my time.  There, encompassed in a
single glance, hung the entirety of man's long existence, the
results of all his battles, all his loves and all his works.
Until now. 

* * *

We entered orbit at one lunar radius, 1080 miles, above the
eastern limb.  The moon would have seemed overpowering, covering
60 degrees of sky, except that we were in the center of its
shadow.  Even so its Earthward half was lit by ghostly Earthshine
while the pitch-black Farside occulted a multitude of stars
behind it.  What a sight!

Crater Daedalus, our destination, was 90 degrees farther around
the curving surface, presently on the terminator, so called,
which is the edge of sunlight.  Programs were already in place to
deorbit us smoothly and set us at rest five miles above the
center of Daedalus, where I was expected finally to guide the
ship manually to the chosen spot of touchdown between the
crater's central peaks and an easily distinguished minor crater
to the west of them within Daedalus.

Daedalus is some 93 miles in diameter, a very old crater with
inner walls terraced by the shakedowns of later meteor impacts
around it, distinguished by being the large crater most nearly
centered on the far side of the moon.  It has eight rebound peaks
clumped near its center.  The ambitious lunar denizens of the
early 22nd Century would remove them and use the material to fill
in the myriad of smaller craters contained within Daedalus.  In
the resulting flat circle 80 miles in diameter they would install
the solar system's largest phased-array radio telescope, built
there to take advantage of the moon's bulk as shielding against
the incredible radio noise produced by the denizens of Earth.
With the irony that history so enjoys visiting upon grandiosity,
this telescope would hardly become operational before its
usefulness would be totally eclipsed by one of a thousand miles'
diameter spun in solar orbit beyond Jupiter.

In 1954, I didn't have to land on Farside to avoid detection from
Earth; no Earth-based telescope was good enough to see a 90-foot
object on the lunar surface, even if it had been painted orange.
But I wanted to be first with a claim on Daedalus.  I had a use
for it that would not be so readily eclipsed.

* * *

The approach program was running, having transitioned smoothly
from the deceleration phase, evidenced mainly by a slight
reduction in the steam hiss below us and pressure on our butts,
now only one G.  Intermittent hisses sounded around us as the
attitude jets curved us down.

"Clara," I said quietly, "are you listening, dear one?"

"Always, Tim."

"We're on the approach and rounding the limb.  We'll soon be in
radio shadow.  I know you would've told me already, but guess I'd
better ask anyway.  Have you heard or seen anything on the
national news that could in any way be related to us?"

The round-trip speed-of-light delay, 2.9 seconds, was
unmistakable.  She finally responded, "No, Tim, not even a report
on your nearly vertical vapor trails."

"Okay.  Once again I have to ask: have you learned anything that
could shed some light on ... whatever happened to Karl and
Rosalind?"

"No, Tim.  No reports of explosions or strange things in the
sky."

I had to sigh.  "All right.  Thanks for everything, my love."

"Tim!  That sounds like good-bye!"

"It is for a while.  We'll land, push a claim out the airlock and
grab some dust, then lift again.  Alice and I might have to ...
celebrate, though we probably won't do it justice without Karl
and Rosalind.  Listen for us.  I'll call you soon as we round the
western limb on the way back."

"I'll be here, Tim.  I love you both."

Alice responded for me, "As we do you."

"Take care, my darlings.  Alazar and Melita send their love."

"Do they?"

"Oh yes, particularly Alazar."

Alice made a cooing sound but my attention was distracted.  The
sunlit far limb of the moon had popped into visibility, initially
a brilliant arc of separated jewels because of the very
mountainous surface on Farside.  The arc swiftly became
contiguous while growing longer and wider as we watched.  My
display showed a steadily unrolling infrared altimeter.  I
extended my hands and flexed the fingers.  The approach program
had twelve minutes left to run.  Then it would be my turn.

"Nervous, Tim?" asked Alice.

I took a deep breath.  "Yes.  I'd be a fool to claim otherwise.
We -- I screwed up.  By leaving half a day early we'll arrive with
the center of Daedalus still in shadow."

She cocked an eyebrow toward me.  "Don't you think the floods
will be bright enough?"

"Maybe.  But it's hard to see irregularities when the light is so
close to your eye that it casts no shadows.  Damn it!  If we had
stayed on schedule we wouldn't need the floods.  The moon would
have rolled another six degrees and the central peaks would be
lit up, reflecting all the light we need to land."

She shrugged.  "Don't cry over spilt milk.  If you can't pick a
good place to land, return to orbit and wait half a day.  We have
plenty of water and charge.  As Karl said, we could almost visit
Mars."

I considered it -- and rejected it again.  "I want to land now."

My eyes locked with hers.  I saw her lips form the word, "Why,"
but she held her peace.  She had guessed my reason, I'm sure.
Karl and Rosalind had agreed on this rendezvous time and place.
If any chance remained that they were alive, in space and in
control of their ship, I wanted to be where they expected to find
me.

* * *

My computer warned me unnecessarily at the end of approach as the
thrust decreased to one lunar gravity, just under one-sixth G.  I
was too engrossed to remark on the obviously reduced lift under
my butt, except to note how Earth-centered are our
interpretations of such phenomena -- it felt like the sudden
downward lurch of an Empire State Building elevator, only more
so, even though I knew our velocity hadn't changed yet.

I had already slid open the viewports in the floor beside the
pilot's seat.  With interior lights shut off, including the
useless mechanical instruments, and taking care that the blinding
peaks to sunward stayed out of the view, our exterior floodlights
could barely show the blotchy gray expanse below me, even to
dark-adjusted eyes.  I'd have to get closer.  I let the infrared
altimeter and the vertical velocity sampler glow dimly in the
upper left extent of my vision.  The altimeter showed about
26,000 feet with a negative velocity of four feet per second:
very close to stationary.  With the steam countering the moon's
pull I had plenty of time.

"You're centered on Daedalus," announced Alice, "as far as I can
tell."  She based her judgment on the glowing half rim seen
through the regular viewports while referencing a 21st Century
large-scale map overlayed on her retinas.

 From five miles up the entire rim was beyond the edges of my
down-looking port.  "Shouldn't I be able to see that three-mile
marker crater just west of Daedalus center?"  Curiously none of
us had been able to find a name for it in all our 24th Century
records, perhaps because it had vanished under the radio
telescope early in the 22nd.

"You're facing north," she advised.  "Look to your left about 40
degrees off the vertical."

After a moment I said with disgust, "Nothing has a shadow.  I'm
going to start the default lander."

"Well, do keep a close watch.  You can probably see more detail
as we get lower."

The default lander program consulted only altitude and velocity.
Its job was to bring both to zero at once by iteratively solving
the Newtonian equations, not much of a task when you're fast at
square roots.  Unfortunately it took no account of surface
irregularities.  If the touchdown point happened to fall on the
edge of a vertical cliff, it was equally capable of landing with
one strut hanging off the edge or of crashing half the ship on
top of the cliff if it had chosen to land at the foot.  My job
was to anticipate and prevent such awkwardness by slipping
sideways as we descended.

So I stared through the bottom port, hardly daring to blink, as
the altimeter unrolled in the corner of my vision.  I began
finally to notice circular formations with centers slightly
lighter than their surroundings, probably because the flat floors
reflected more floodlight back to me than the broken rims.
Gradually the reflections became bright enough for their brownish
gray color to register.  Unfortunately _everything_ was brownish
gray!

At a thousand feet, well below the 15,000-foot rebound peaks, I
picked a light area, speckled with few markings, that seemed
relatively flat, and pitched toward it with the attitude
thrusters.  The altimeter continued to shrink, though slower and
slower.

At 100 feet I lowered the landing struts and said to Alice,
"Cross your fingers."

She laughed.  "Remember when you confused Karl with that advice?"

Bless her!  The memory of his face, worried that he had forgotten
some obscure control sequence, was the momentary distraction I
needed.  I consciously relaxed my tense arms and shoulders, even
taking a deep breath.  A moment later altitude and velocity
reached zero with only a slight jar and a few creaks from the
ship's frame.

I held tight to the attitude stick, waiting for a tilt caused by
uneven ground beneath us.  Nothing happened.  The ship sat there,
still thrusting at about 95 per-cent of a lunar gravity.  Hastily
I ordered STOP THRUST before our steam could turn the desiccated
lunar soil into mud.  More creaks sounded as the hissing died
away.

I looked at Alice.  She looked at me.  "We're down," I said
unnecessarily into the uncanny silence.

"On the moon," she added and licked her lips.

"I can hardly believe it," I said.

She sniffed.  "I know that a man has to say _something_ at such a
moment, but do you really think it compares with 'The _Eagle_ has
landed?'"

I cleared my throat.  "Let me start over.  _Ship One_ is down in
one piece in Daedalus Crater."

"Well, that does _compare_."

She and I laughed together.  Suddenly I felt an explosion of joy.
"My god, Alice, _we did it_!"

"_You_ did it," she averred, paused, then added, "again!"

"Almost 15 years before --  What do you mean, 'again?'"

"You know what I mean.  Once again you have beaten the whole
world."

"I guess so."  I had a whimsical thought.  "Do you suppose, when
we get back, I should look up Neil Armstrong and apologize?"

"Yes.  Look him up and give him a job."

* * *

Looking out the viewports to the east, we could see the broken
ramparts of Daedalus rim, 40-some miles away, as a narrow band of
irregular bright blotches lit by sun rays parallel to the ground,
their five-mile height enough to peek over the Lunar horizon less
than three miles distant.  The sun itself was behind them, hidden
from us for another ten hours or so because of the moon's very
slow rotation.  They stretched all the way from north to south.
The rest of our new world was pitch black below, detectable to
the down-sweeping eye only because of the sudden end of stars.

I ordered our beacon turned on, a bright red incandescent bulb in
the apex of the ship.  The capacitive discharge strobe lamp had
not yet been invented, but our beacon flashed at two-second
intervals and the current flow indicated that the bulb was not
burned out.

A check of the ship's status returned normal readings.  We
retained 46 hours of charge and 39 per-cent of water capacity,
having started at 54 and 50 each.  Inside air pressure held at
one atmosphere.  The CO2 percentage was up only a notch to 0.2;
apparently the exchanger was working adequately.  The airlock was
in vacuum.  I said to Alice, "Remind me to let air back into the
airlock before we return.  I'm not confident it can handle
outside pressure."

"I'll do that."  She looked over her shoulder.  "What are you
planning for _him_?"

"I see no reason to keep him drugged.  Would you mind" -- I smiled
engagingly -- "kissing him again?"

"With the ANTI, I presume."

"Please."

She made a face but unbuckled her straps and followed me to
Cleaver's corner.

Apparently he had slept through our recent momentous event.  I
removed the webbing and helped him sit up.  "What ... what ..."
he mumbled, blinking at us.  Alice knelt, took his head and chin
in her hands and kissed him briefly before standing back.

I waited a moment and said, "Come on, Harrison.  On your feet.
Let's take a few steps."

He stood up shakily, requiring little help from me in the weak
lunar gravity, which may have contributed to his puzzled look.
But he firmed up after a turn around the cabin.  "That was the
antidote?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.  "The drug would have worn off in another hour
anyway, but I wanted to talk to you."

"I see.  I feel ... incredibly light.  A side effect?"

"No."  I had to chuckle.  "A direct effect.  Of standing on the
moon."

"The ... the _moon_?"  His eyes popped.

I gestured forward.  "Look out the viewports."

He leaned on the back of my chair and scanned around.  "That band
of lights ... looks something like Chicago seen from far out on
the lake.  Except ..."

I indulged him.  "Except what?"

"No colors but white and maybe brown.  No reflections in the
water.  Even when the lake freezes there are reflections.  What
am I seeing?"

"Rocky projections on the eastern rim of Daedalus crater, fringed
by a very oblique sun that will rise above them in 12 hours."

"Daedalus?  I've heard that name."

"Yes, in Greek mythology.  He made wings for himself and his son,
Icarus, to escape imprisonment.  You've never heard it applied to
this crater before.  We're on Farside, Harrison.  You're the
third person in all history to see that sight."

"Farside."  He blinked.  "Why did you come here?"

"To the moon?  If you mean to Daedalus, I came here because it's
in the middle of Farside, where I intend to build a huge
industrial city."

He blinked madly, reminding me of Karl's first weeks.  He shook
his head and grinned wryly.  "I hope the next sight looks more
spectacular."

"If you wish, I'll let you watch from the bottom ports when we
lift off.  Are you hungry?"

He tasted his lips.  "You fed me something a while back, didn't
you?"

"A coke and a pack of Nabs.  Alice and I supped but I doubt you
did, hiding in that suit locker.  We have sandwiches if you want
more."

He took a breath.  "I'm all right for now.  You wanted to talk to
me?"

"Yes, I do."  I sat in my chair and indicated the top of the
control panel.  "Why don't you perch up there, Harrison?"

He glanced at it.  "I'm not so athletic as you, Tim."

"Remember where you are.  You can jump ten feet into the air."

"It's a lot easier to stand.  But if you _want_ me to sit ..."
He easily pulled himself up to the narrow shelf above the
instruments and turned around with his heels dangling.  His face
showed surprise.  "By god, you're right!"

His face was a bit higher than mine.  I asked, "What is your net
worth?"

He chuckled slightly.  "Brass tacks already?  Yesterday on Earth
it was 312 million dollars.  Here and now I'm broke."

"But you'll return to Earth in a few hours.  Where's your money
invested?"

"A few blue chips, aside from Gerrymander Inc."

"Your holding company.  What does it hold?"

"What I began with: three meat-packing outfits and a chunk of the
Chicago stockyards.  You and I have talked about this before.
When I saw what Chicago U graduates were achieving, I put a few
of them in charge of new businesses.  They're doing things with
real potential, Tim."  He smiled confidently.  "A word that
you'll be hearing a lot in years to come: _computer_.  My boys
are building one for the feds that will solve math problems
faster than you can think them up."

"No doubt.  What if I asked you for divestiture of all that
except your food operations?"

"And do what with the money."

"Invest in Fernworks.  Do you know what _fern_ means in German?"
I was careful to pronounce it _fayrn_.

"No."

"It means _far_, Harrison.  And that's where I'm going.  We made
it here in just under four hours.  The drive I invented for this
ship can reach even to the outer planets in mere _days_.  I
intend to fill the solar system with people."

He took a deeper breath.  "You don't think small, do you!"

"No.  And that's where you come in."

"Thinking small?"

"How does _Solar System Manager_ sound to you?"

He smiled cynically with cocked eyebrows and chuckled.  "You've
certainly led me atop a high mountain!  That job is hardly
small."

"Managing day-to-day operations can get _terribly_ small, as I've
had occasion to notice only too well the last couple of years."

"Okay, I think I understand.  But, Tim ..."  He hesitated, again
with desperate hope on his face.  "You know what I want."

"Good health?  The next time Alice kisses you, that problem will
be solved.  You'd live a long time working for me, Harrison, and
I think you'd enjoy it."

"Maybe I would."  He grimaced.  "But just now it feels like a hot
ice pick stuck up between balls and asshole.  Even heroin doesn't
dull it.  It's killing me.  Literally.  I'll agree to anything
you say if you'll fix that."

I frowned.  "Now you're making it _my_ problem."

"Eh?"

"I don't want you to agree under coercion, Cleaver, even if I'm
not the one torturing you."

His head drooped.  When he looked up, his mouth was twisted.  "Do
you want me to beg, Tim?  I don't even have a designated heir."

"After all those orgies?"

"I had the mumps as a teenager."

"We'll fix that too.  Give Alice a few minutes to tailor your
medicine."

His eyes lit up and his whole demeanor changed.  "What does she
need from me?" he asked eagerly.

She drew closer to us.  "Nothing except your cooperation."

He opened his hands.  "Just tell me!"

"Drop your pants."

"Wh-what?"

"Some of my closest friends think I'm a cold-hearted bitch, and I
guess sometimes I am, but I'm not indifferent to suffering, even
to a fox with his foot in a trap or a man with his prostate in
one.  Lower your britches, Harrison, and I'll relieve your pain
by the most direct route."

"Y-you ..."  He fumbled with his belt.  Wide-eyed, he forced
trousers over hips without bothering to loosen buckle or zipper.
His shorts followed.  He snatched shirttails aside.

She dropped to her knees, took the flaccid manhood in hand and
paused to look up at him with the organ just inches from her
mouth.  "This will take a minute or two.  Hold very still,
Harrison, or it will hurt."

"Yes ... ma'am," he intoned, rolling his eyes at me.

Her lips closed over the knob.  She froze, breathing gently
through her nostrils, continuing to hold the limp shaft.  Only
her larynx bobbed.  After a moment Cleaver trembled.

"Does it hurt?" I asked curiously, wondering myself exactly what
she was doing to him.

"N-no, not anything like the other.  It ... feels like she's
_blowing_ something up me!"

"She probably is," I said thoughtfully.

He held himself rigid, cords standing out in his neck.

Her throat continued to work while her nostrils flared and
shrank, flared and shrank, until he cried, "God!" almost in
supplication.

"Hurts worse?" I asked.

"It's ... indescribable, like jism going backwards, I guess.  A
catheter feels something like ..."

Suddenly his eyes were huge.  "It's fading out!  My god, it's
fading _out_!"

"Fading out?"

"The pain!  It's going away."

She released him and got to her feet.  Her wet lips curled.
"That's a first, Tim."

"A medical blowjob?"

"Huh!  Nurses do that all the time.  No, I think it's the first
time I ever let a dick get out of my mouth soft."

Cleaver was holding himself, hands on either side of his balls.
"My god, how wonderful!  I can never thank you -- or pay you
enough.  Miss Edgeworth, please tell me how I --"

She raised a hand.  "Don't babble!  We're not finished.  Be quiet
and open your mouth."

He blinked a few times but obeyed, standing ridiculously before
the control panel of the world's first space ship, landed on the
far side of the moon, with his pants down and his mouth open
wide.  It occurred to me that if Clara made a still of this image
from my record, a publication threat might be as useful to
control him as remote DISINHIBITOR.

Alice leaned forward and applied her mouth briefly to his, hardly
what I would call a kiss.  She straightened and explained, "That
begins your examination.  We'll give the, ah, microexaminers an
hour or so to look around, then I'll collect them and decide
exactly what you need to cure that problem permanently."

"You ... think it _can_ be cured -- without surgery?"

"Of course, Harrison."  She laughed scornfully.  "Men's bodies
are simple."

He swallowed.  "Can I pull my pants up?"

She laughed.  "How long has it been since you asked a woman
_that_, Harrison?"

He actually flushed but followed it with a smile.  "Miss
Edgeworth, I'm afraid to breathe without your permission."
Though I listened carefully, I heard no sarcasm.

Not so her response.  She grinned sardonically.  "I admire the
clarity of your perception."

* * *

Harrison Cleaver was obviously feeling much better.  He joined us
in a snack, accepting a sandwich and coke.  Looking at our thin
but brilliant half-ring of crater rim, he said with a grin around
his food, "I've heard people talk about the crack of dawn all my
life, but this is the first time I've ever seen one.  Am I a
fully-tiled member of Fernworks yet, Tim?"

I shook my head.  "This wasn't a Shriner's initiation, Harrison.
We have several loose ends outstanding.  For example, what do you
know about the fate of my second ship and its crew?"

"Actually no more than you."  His face grew sober.  "The pair
that stowed away on it, Moultry and Clinton, can be
unpredictable.  Moultry is cautious and always wants to go by the
book.  Clinton is a hot head.  Usually they balance off rather
well.  Don't you have radio contact at all?"

"I heard someone take over the ship.  Since then not a peep.
What orders did your men have?"

"To take control of the ship and keep it close to this one."

"And kill the crew?"

"Absolutely not!  To make them prisoners, only."

"They were armed?"

"Yes."  He heaved a sigh.  "I do most sincerely regret it if
anyone was hurt."

Alice declared ominously, "That may be truer than you realize,
Cleaver."

He sighed again.  "I like it much better when you call me
Harrison."

She only grunted.

* * *

The conversation had gotten around to future space plans again
when we all jumped.  Someone -- or something -- was knocking on a
landing strut, judging from the sound.

Alice's eyes were like saucers.  "My god, Tim!"  So were
Harrison's.  "I thought you said we were on the moon!"  Both of
them stared at me as if I were responsible.  Suddenly I knew what
had to be the cause and was tickled for several reasons, not
least that for once I was ahead of Alice.

"Either we know who it is or a lot of people have been lying
their heads off.  Alice, do a check on the suit radios."

Her internal computer had principle responsibility for the
short-range suit communicators, which used narrow-band FM in the
UHF spectrum, adapted from Clara's birds.  I heard the click as
she switched in the repeater for my benefit.  "Communications
check," she said.  "Is that you, Karl?"

"Karl-Heinz, if you don't mind, and Rosalind.  Turn on your
floods so I can see what I'm doing."

"My god, Karl!" she cried while I commanded the outside floods to
light up.  "We thought you were dead."

"So did we for a bit back there.  Aha!  Watch this!"

But of course we could see nothing but the brownish-gray soil
directly below the bottom ports.

Alice asked, "Are you jumping high, Karl?"

Suddenly Rosalind was laughing.

"_Verdammte_!" Karl declared along with a series of grunts.

"He landed on his head," Rosalind explained, subsiding in another
peal of laughter.

"This will take practice," Karl admitted in an injured tone.
"Would you please pump out your airlock and extend your
staircase?"

I issued that command too and said, "The airlock is already open,
folks.  Please join us in our humble abode."

"Good!" noted Cleaver, staring at me significantly.  "Your other
crew survived."

"Apparently."

"How did they manage it, I wonder."

"We'll find out in a moment."

Alice sniffed.  "Likely _your_ crew didn't, else ours wouldn't
leave its ship unguarded."

He offered weakly, "Maybe they're just tied up."

We waited in silence.  When a minute or two had passed with no
noise from the airlock, I keyed the suit channel and asked,
"What's the holdup?"

Karl answered aggrievedly, "This damnable dust!  You can't brush
it off.  It must be static electricity."

"He rolled in it," Rosalind explained, no longer laughing, "when
he came down from his high jump."

"We need some water," Karl declared.  "I see the nozzle.  How
about releasing a puff of steam?"

A one-second puff did the job well enough.  When they cycled
through the lock soon after, the suits were clean above the
knees.  Karl's was not even wet.  Of course water boils away
immediately in a vacuum.

We helped them shed their suits in an orgy of welcoming hugs and
no few kisses.  Rosalind stared around at the cabin, eyes fixing
on Cleaver, who had hung back.  "_You_!" she uttered through
twisted lips.

Karl had never met him but of course recognized him from Clara's
images.  "So!  _Herr General_ himself led the attack!"

Perhaps because of the hard German G, Cleaver failed to
understand Karl's ironic recognition.  "I'm afraid _I_ led it,
Mr. Haines: Harrison Cleaver, at your service."

"Tell us what happened!" demanded Alice.

"One moment."  I held up a hand.  "First things first.  You two
are obviously healthy.  What's the state of your ship?"

"Usable," said Karl.

"If you don't need to breathe," added Rosalind.

"We can't seal it," said Karl.

"It wasn't air-tight after all?" I asked incredulously.

"It isn't _now_.  It has a hole above the control panel large
enough to pass your fist all the way through the hull.  I think
the dicks are dangerous when violently thumped.  And we don't
have any large patches.  How could we have overlooked that?"

Alice interrupted, thrusting her finger into a brown-stained hole
in his shirt.  "I'm not so sure about the 'obviously healthy.'
How many times did they shoot you, Karl?"

He waived his hand negligently with a smile.  "Only twice."  His
gaze settled on mine approvingly.  "That diamondoid works!"

"Yes, I know."  I emitted a sigh.  "All right.  Start at the
beginning.  What happened on your ship?"

* * *

It had all been very quick.  The two intruders had found or cut
two pieces of canvas shroud left unnoticed in the back of the
space suit locker.  They worked their way silently across the
main cabin, apparently intending to blindfold and secure Karl and
Rosalind with the canvas.  Karl reacted instinctively when the
cloth went over his head.  He grabbed the assailant's arms and
with the leverage of his tight harness, threw the man forward
over the chair.

"It was uncanny, Tim.  That's the second design deficiency this
event disclosed.  The man's boot hit the main power breaker on
the panel and knocked it into the off position.  Did you know
that _everything_ on these ships is controlled by that breaker?
I mean everything, from the steam generators to the
spread-spectrum radio."

As a result communications with the outside was lost, along with
interior lighting and most importantly, steam power including
thrust.  They went almost instantly to free fall, otherwise known
as zero-G.  The attackers' response was to begin shooting.
Enough light came through the ports from the half-moon overhead
for them to find targets.

"But mostly they missed," Karl explained, "especially Rosalind.
I think all men, even these, hate to shoot a pretty woman.  They
put five bullets into the hull.  Only one actually did any
damage, but it was terrible.  I couldn't hear anything but
ringing from the gunshots, but I knew we had serious trouble when
my eardrums began to flex."

He released his belts and freed Rosalind.  The two attackers had
ceased shooting and were flailing in midair.  Apparently only by
instinct or perhaps dumb luck, he shoved off from Rosalind's
chair with her body under his arm and sailed directly through the
open hatch to the suit locker.  Using the emergency light on his
suit helmet, he got her zipped into hers and turned on the
oxygen.  By then the pressure was low enough to produce pains in
his joints from nitrogen bubbles in the blood -- the start of the
"bends" first discovered by returning deep-sea divers.
Nevertheless he succeeded in donning his own suit mainly by feel.
Rosalind of course had never practiced, knew nothing about it and
could not help him.

"Tim, you once accused me of wasteful Teutonic thoroughness.  I'm
pleased that I ignored it."

"So am I, Karl.  So am I."

They emerged from the suit locker into the dark main cabin, now
in vacuum.  He strapped the woman into her seat, secured his own
belts and restored main power.  Lights came up, along with
thrust.  Two dead men flopped onto the floor behind them.

"They're still there, Tim, and they're a mess.  One of them lost
an eye.  I think vacuum is not good for anyone's appearance.  I
strapped them down with cargo webbing in case you want to look
them over."

"When you get the ship aloft, space them," I said indifferently.
Rosalind frowned and looked away but Cleaver's face didn't
change.  "Why didn't you turn on the radio?" I continued.  "Did a
bullet damage it?"

Karl grinned at me.  "The third design deficiency!  You know how
spread spectrum works, don't you, with pseudorandom slot
distribution?  You must; you designed it."

"Not I.  Clara brought back that technique, although it was
originally designed in the Twentieth Century.  Aha!  When the
power went, your radio lost sync."

"Exactly!  And I could never find the right trigger to match your
sequence.  What are we doing with a megabit sequence, Tim?  Who
else in this universe could possibly stumble on even a kilobit
sequence?"

Rosalind sniffed, "Damn it, lay off the technicalese, gentlemen.
Redesign the radios on the next trip.  We have to all go home in
_Ship One_ anyway."

He shrugged.  "She's right.  By the way, I brought these."  He
reached into capacious pockets and produced two wallets.  "Should
I give them to _der Fuehrer_?"

"I'll take them," I said, extending my hand.  It seemed prudent
to conceal such evidence from future investigators, if any.  I
slipped them into my own pocket.

"So what's _he_ doing here?" demanded Rosalind.  She looked upon
Cleaver with grave disapproval.

That was my cue.  I told the story of _Ship One_.

* * *

Cleaver had been our bogeyman for a long time.  The team had
trouble accepting his proposed new status.  Well, so did I.
"You're on probation," I told him at the conclusion of my story.

"I understand that."  He looked at Alice.  "You won't be sorry."

She glowered at him.  "Come here."

He straightened up and obeyed.  She took his face in her hands
and applied her mouth to his.  This was considerably more of a
kiss.  His arms came up to enclose her but she wriggled her
shoulders impatiently and he let them fall.

When she backed away, he asked hopefully, "Am I cured?"

"Not yet," she answered shortly.  She seemed to be tasting her
lips.

He glanced at Karl and Rosalind.  "Do you also understand what
she's doing?"

I held up a forestalling hand.  "Ask no questions about us as
yet, Harrison."

"Very well," he agreed, perhaps too readily.  "I'll wait."

"It's 01:45 in the morning.  I know we planned to stay longer,
but with uncertain backup for this ship and all our eggs in one
basket, I want to minimize risks.  Does anyone object to an
immediate return?"

"To Baylor?" asked Karl.

"I think to Ferndep for replacement material.  We must repair
_Ship Two_."

It was agreed, though Karl wanted to move the ship into the
sunshine beyond Daedalus rim briefly so that Rosalind could make
a proper record of his high jump.  I vetoed it, reminding him
that I wanted to minimize risks.

"What risk?" he demanded, blinking at me.

"The risk of discovering another design deficiency," I answered
dryly, "such as a method for removing electrostatically clinging
dust."

Cleats for securing cargo were positioned every few feet around
the interior.  Fortunately, considering our hasty departure from
Baylor, we had enough webbing to make our three passengers secure
-- except for Cleaver.  He reminded me of my offer to let him
observe takeoff beside one of bottom ports.  I reluctantly
acquiesced on the condition that he hold tight to my chair frame.

We lifted off from Daedalus at 02:02 on Wednesday, Eastern
Standard Time, thrusting at one and one-tenth lunar gravity or
about 0.18G.  I held that until we cleared the height of the
rebound peaks, then upped it to our favorite, 1.1G.  My butt
settled into the seat with a sense of familiarity.

Two of my passengers were furnished with aural
microphone-receivers.  I asked, "Everybody comfortable?"

"This floor is hard," Rosalind noted tersely.

"Design Deficiency Number Five," declared Karl.  "Why didn't we
think of pillows?"

"We'll be inbound in 16 minutes.  Then you can stand up and walk
around."

I felt someone pulling my pants leg.  I looked down to find
Harrison peering up with parted lips.  "We really _were_ on the
moon!" he declared.

"Yes, we were."

"But ... but ..."

"What's the trouble, Harrison?"

"This isn't the moon!  I've looked through telescopes.  It's too
_rugged_."

"Ah.  You're saying, 'Where are the _maria_?'"

"Huh?  Oh, yeah.  The seas.  Where are they, if that's the moon?"

"I told you: that is Farside, forever turned away from Earth.
You are only the third person ever to see it."

"Farside," he repeated, eyes going introspective.  "My god,
_Farside_!"

But my other passengers and crew were talking.  Alice said, "Karl
was the first to step out on the moon, I presume."

"Correct," answered Karl.

"I had to push him," added Rosalind humorously.

"Well, _Scheisse_!  That little light in the top of the airlock
was barely enough to see the stairs."

Alice continued, "But you were the first to put boot on the moon,
right?"

"Yes, I was first."

"Then tell me: what did you _say_?"

"Say?  What do you mean?  I guess I told Rosalind it was safe if
she was careful where she walked.  I aimed for your red beacon
but put down a bit close to the rim of your little crater.  The
stairs ended on a pile of rubble."

"What _exactly_ did you say?"

"Well ..."

"Go ahead," Rosalind urged.  "Tell them."

"Tell them what?"

"You said that same German swear word: _Scheisse_.  What does it
mean?"

"Shit.  I did?  I did _not_!"

"Yes, you did.  His first words were, '_Scheisse_!  That would be
a broken knee if we were on Earth.'  Because he stumbled in the
dark and nearly fell on his face."

All laughed, but I puzzled over it while keeping an eye on the
rising altimeter.  Had he surpassed Armstrong or not?


END
Entirety Copyright (C) 2002, Varangian Kellis

Contacts:
kellis@dhp.com
ludmax11@hotmail.com (Varangian)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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