Part 13 (1/2)
Tom tested some with a Swift spectroscope, then nodded, grinning. ”Taste it.”
Chow did so, somewhat gingerly. His sun-bronzed leathery face cracked into a broad smile. ”Boss, this takes the cake!” he exclaimed. ”Machine-made groceries! Brand my coyote cutlets, I never would 'a' believed it!”
”Chow,” said Tom, ”get me some spoons, dishes, a bowl, and an egg beater from the galley, will you?”
As the cook hurried off, Tom resumed his production of simple food compounds. He made citric acid, several fats resembling corn oil, a gelatinlike protein substance, and finally water. When Chow returned with the utensils, Tom mixed the gelatin in water, added some sugar and citric acid, and set the mixture aside to jell. Finally he whipped the fats, water, and the remaining sugar into a texture similar to whipped cream.
”To top off our lemon gelatin,” Tom explained. The others were speechless.
After it had jelled, Tom served a dishful to each man. In a moment they were smacking their lips and p.r.o.nouncing the concoction delicious.
”It's nouris.h.i.+ng too,” said Doc Simpson. ”A person could live on it indefinitely.”
”Of course, sirloin steak and onions might taste good for a change, every so often,” Bud remarked.
”Give me time.” Tom grinned. ”With a lit- 126 .
tie experimenting, I might come up with something that tastes like steer.”
”Reckon the Texas cattle business is safe for a while yet,” Chow remarked.
”But this stuff sure tastes a heap better'n some o' them dried-up rations we used to take on s.p.a.ce cruises!”
”Better watch out, Chow, or this solartron may put you out of business,” Bud teased.
”A good cook ain't never out of a job, son,” Chow retorted calmly.
”You can say that again, Chow!” Tom chuckled, slapping the old Westerner fondly on the back.
After much urging, Tom was persuaded to lie down for a nap. He found himself more tired than he realized and finally dropped off to sleep. But almost at once, it seemed, his radio was flas.h.i.+ng him awake. Ken Horton was calling from the s.p.a.ce station.
”Tom, we just had another radio call from your dad and Ted!”
”I want to talk to them!” Tom cried, springing up from his bunk.
”Can't do it,” Ken answered. ”The call was just like last time. Both Mr. Swift and Ted said a few sentences and then signed off. When we tried to signal your dad, he didn't respond, or Ted either.”
Tom groaned with frustration. ”What did they say?”
”Same thing. They're on the moon and want you to come and get them. One thing, though,”
MOON SEARCH 127.
Ken added, ”we got a fix on their signal and it was definitely coming from the moon.”
”That's good enough for me,” Tom declared. ”Pa.s.s the word to embark. We'll unhook the power gatherers. Same crew as before, plus Doc Simpson.”
Everyone responded eagerly. Soon the powerful s.p.a.ce craft was zooming moon ward. When it was well underway, Tom ordered his crew to rotate watches-each man to s.n.a.t.c.h an hour's sleep at a time.
Later, when Chow was serving cocoa and sandwiches, the intercom buzzed in the flight compartment. ”Just picked up another call from your dad, skipper!”
the radioman reported.
”Anything new?” Tom asked tensely.
”He said you'd find him and Ted Spring in the same location where you made your landing on the moon last time. That was all. Then he signed off.”
”Okay. Thanks, Marty,” Tom said. ”Keep monitoring the same frequency.”
”Roger!”
Bud flashed the young pilot a questioning glance. ”I suppose your dad meant when you and I landed on the repelatron donkeys.”
The ”donkeys” were small flying platforms, also nicknamed flying carpets, which Tom had invented for moon transport work on his earlier trip. Each platform was about three feet square, with a housing for the repelatron which held it aloft by force ray. The pilot steered by means 128 .
of a small hand-control box at the end of a six-foot wire.
Bud asked, ”Tom, do you think the message from your dad was on the level?”
Tom shrugged uneasily. ”I don't know, Bud. I can't figure out why neither Dad nor Ted will respond to our calls. It doesn't make sense.”
As Tom gunned the repelatrons to full power, they blazed through the void at cometlike speed. No one broke the tense silence. All eyes in the flight compartment were glued to the view panes.
Ahead of them the moon loomed with a white and ghostly radiance. Its face was pock-marked with craters and ridged with jagged mountain ranges, while the lunar plains or ”seas” showed as smooth dark patches.
In two more hours the Challenger was hovering a hundred miles above the moon's surface. Tom steered for the Crater of Copernicus, scene of his previous landing, ”Take over the controls, Bud!” he ordered.
Eagerly Tom focused the s.h.i.+p's powerful telescope and scanned the terrain below. Light-colored streaks radiated outward from the rim of the crater. Inside the towering rock walls, the bowl-like surface was strewn with gritty dust and rubble.
”See anything?” Hanson asked.
Tom shook his head. ”Not a trace of a recent landing so far as I can make out. Cruise around in widening circles, Bud.”
130 .
The crater was fifty or sixty miles in width and the telescope showed every detail of its interior with needle-sharp clarity. Yet Tom could discern no evidence of movement, nor unusual marks in the gritty debris.
Grim-faced with disappointment, Tom turned the telescope over to Arv Hanson and went back to the controls. He brought the s.h.i.+p still lower and began circling farther and farther beyond the crater. Yawning cracks and crevices, spiny mountain ridges, and tumbled heaps of rocks pa.s.sed below them.
”Hold it, skipper!” Arv cried. ”Go back over that stretch of lava sand we just pa.s.sed.”
Tom swiveled the steering repelatrons to turn the s.h.i.+p around, then retraced his course slowly.
”There it is!” Arv shouted. ”Tom, I believe that's a rocket half-buried in the sand!”
Tense with excitement, Tom got up to peer through the telescope, while Bud held the s.h.i.+p hovering over the spot. ”You're right, Arv,” the young inventor said tersely. ”Want to come along while I examine it, Bud?”