Part 27 (1/2)

Bruce figured-at one-sixth gravity that meant fifty pounds weight including himself, his suit, and his pack. ”I'll carry my full share,” he objected.

”We'll decide what's best for you,” the Scoutmaster snapped. ”Hurry up; the troop is ready.” He left.

Sam switched off his radio and touched helmets. ”Forget it,” he said quietly. ”The Old Man is edgy at the start of a hike.” They loaded Bruce rapidly-reserve air and water bottles, a carton of grub, short, wide skis and ski poles-then hung him with field gear, first-aid kit, prospector's hammer, two climbing ropes, a pouch of pitons and snap rings, flashlight, knife. The Moon Scouts loaded up; Sam called, ”Come Mr. Andrews handed the lockmaster a list and stepped inside; the three Scouts followed. Bruce felt his suit expand as the air sucked back into the underground city. A light blinked green; Mr. Andrews opened the outer door and Bruce stared across the airless lunar plain.

It dazzled him. The plain was bright under a blazing Sun. The distant needle-sharp hills seemed painted in colors too flat and harsh. He looked at the sky to rest his eyes.

It made him dizzy. He had never seen a whole skyful of stars undimmed by air. The sky was blacker than black, crowded with hard, diamond lights.

”Route march!” the Scoutmaster's voice rang in his helmet. ”Heel and toe. Jack Wills out as pathfinder.” A boy left the group in long, floating strides, fifteen feet at a bound. He stopped a hundred yards ahead; the troop formed single column fifty yards behind him. The Pathfinder raised his arm, swung it down, and the troop moved out.

Mr. Andrews and a Scout joined Sam and Bruce. ”Speedy will help you,” he told Sam, ”until Bruce gets his legs. Move him along. We can't heel-and-toe and still make our mileage.”

”We'll move him.”

”Even if we have to carry him,” added Speedy.

The Scoutmaster overtook the troop in long leaps. Bruce wanted to follow. It looked easy-like flying.

He had not liked the crack about carrying him. But Sam grasped him by his left belt grip while Speedy seized the one on his right. ”Here we go,” Sam warned. ”Feet on the ground and try to swing in with us.”

Bruce started off confidently. He felt that three days of low gravity in the corridors of Luna City had given him his ”legs”; being taught to walk, like a baby, was just hazing.

Nothing to it-he was light as a bird! True, it was hard to keep heel-and-toe; he wanted to float. He gained speed on a downgrade; suddenly the ground was not there when he reached for it. He threw up his hands.

He hung head down on his belt and could hear his guides laughing. ”Wha' happened?” he demanded, as they righted him.

”Keep your feet on the ground.”

”I know what you're up against,” added Speedy, ”I've been to Earth. Your ma.s.s and weight don't match and your muscles aren't used to it. You weigh what a baby weighs, Earth-side, but you've got the momentum of a fat man.”

Bruce tried again. Some stops and turns showed him what Speedy meant. His pack felt like feathers, but unless he banked his turns, it would throw him, even at a walk. It did throw him, several times, before his legs learned.

Presently, Sam asked, ”Think you're ready for a slow lope?”

”I guess so.”

”Okay-but remember, if you want to turn, you've got to slow down first-or you'll roll like a hoop.

Okay, Speedy. An eight-miler.”

Bruce tried to match their swing. Long, floating strides, like flying. It was flying! Up! . . . float . . .

brush the ground with your foot and up again. It was better than skating or skiing.

”Wups!” Sam steadied him. ”Get your feet out in front.”

As they swung past, Mr. Andrews gave orders for a matching lope.

The unreal hills had moved closer; Bruce felt as if he had been flying all his life. ”Sam,” he said, ”do you suppose I can get along by myself?”

”Shouldn't wonder. We let go a couple o' miles back.”

”Huh?” It was true; Bruce began to feel like a Moon hand.

Somewhat later a boy's voice called ”Heel and toe!”

The troop dropped into a walk. The pathfinder stood on a rise ahead, holding his skis up~ The troop halted and unlashed skis. Ahead was a wide basin filled with soft, powdery stuff.

Bruce turned to Sam, and for the first time looked back to the west. ”Jee .. . miny Crickets!” he breathed.

Earth hung over the distant roof of Luna City, in half phase. It was round and green and beautiful, larger than the harvest Moon and unmeasurably more lovely in forest greens, desert browns and glare white of cloud.

Sam glanced at it. ”Fifteen o'clock.”

Bruce tried to read the time but was stumped by the fact that the sunrise line ran mostly across ocean. He questioned Sam. ”Huh? See that bright dot on the dark side? That's Honolulu-figure from there.”

Bruce mulled this over while binding his skis, then stood up and turned around, without tripping.

”Hmmm-” said Sam, ”you're used to skis.”

”Got my badge.”

”Well, this is different. Just shuffle along and try to keep your feet.”

Bruce resolved to stay on his feet if it killed him. He let a handful of the soft stuff trickle through his glove. It was light and flaky, hardly packed at all. He wondered what had caused it.

Mr. Andrews sent Speedy out to blaze trail; Sam and Bruce joined the column. Bruce was hard put to keep up. The loose soil flew to left and right, settling so slowly in the weak gravity that it seemed to float in air-yet a ski pole, swung through such a cloud, cut a knife-sharp hole without swirling it.

The column swung wide to the left, then back again. Off to the right was a circular depression perhaps fifty yards across; Bruce could not see the bottom. He paused, intending to question Sam; the Scoutmaster's voice prodded him. ”Bruce! Keep moving!”

Much later Speedy's voice called out, ”Hard ground!” Shortly the column reached it and stopped to remove skis. Bruce switched off his radio and touched his helmet to Sam's.

”What was that back where the Skipper yelled at me?”

”That? That was a morning glory. They're poison!”

”A 'morning glory'?”

”Sort of a sink hole. If you get on the slope, you never get out. Crumbles out from under you and you wind up buried in the bottom. There you stay-until your air gives out. Lot of prospectors die that way.

They go out alone and are likely to come back in the dark.”

”How do you know what happens if they go out alone?”

”Suppose you saw tracks leading up to one and no tracks going away?”

”Oh!” Bruce felt silly.