IX

            "Murphy was an optimist." (O'Toole's commentary on Murphy's Law, as cited by A. Bloch)

            To reach the office of Budget Jets we had to go around the end of the spaceport waiting room and into it at the axis, then directly to Budget's door. The waiting room was crowded- the usual lot, plus Shriners and their wives, most of them belted to wall rests, some floating free. And proctors-too many of

            them.

            Perhaps I should explain that the waiting room-and the booking office and the lock to the passenger tunnel and the offices and facilities of Rental Row-are all in free fall, weightless; they do not take part in the stately spin that gives the habitat its pseudo-gravity. The waiting room and related activities are in a cylinder inside a much larger cylinder, the habitat itself. The two cylinders share a common axis. The big one spins; the smaller one does not-like a wheel turning on an axle.

            This requires a vacuum seal at the outer skin of the habitat where the two cylinders touch-a mercury type, I believe, but I've never seen it. The point is that, even though the surrounding habitat spins, the habitat's spaceport must not spin, because a shuttle (or a liner, or a freighter, or even a Volvo) requires a steady place in free fall to dock. The docking nests for Rental Row are a rosette around the main docking facility.

            In going through the waiting room I avoided eye contact and went straight to my destination, a door in a forward corner of the waiting room. Gwen and Bill were tailed up behind me. Gwen had her purse hooked over her neck and was guarding the bonsai maple with one arm and clinging to my ankle with her other hand; Bill was holding on to one of her ankles and towing a package wrapped in Macy's wrapping, with Macy's logo prominent on it. I don't know what that wrapping paper originally covered but it now concealed Gwen's smaller case, her not-clothes.

            Our other baggage? Following the first principle of saving one's neck, we'd chucked it. It would have marked us as phony-for a one-day side trip Shriners on holiday do not carry great loads of baggage. Gwen's smaller case we could salvage because, disguised with Macy's wrapping, it looked like the sort of shopping many of the Shriners had obviously done. And so did the little tree-just the sort of awkward, silly purchase tourists indulge in. But the rest of our baggage had to be abandoned.

            Oh, perhaps it could be shipped to us someday, if safe means could be worked out. But I had written it off our books. Doc Schultz, by scolding me for crabbing over the cost of the deal Gwen had arranged, had reoriented me. I had let myself become soft and sedentary and domesticated-he had forced me to shift gears to the real world, where there are only two sorts:

            the quick and the dead.

            A truth of which I again became acutely aware in crossing that waiting room: Chief Franco came in behind us. He appeared to be unaware of us and I strove to appear unaware of him. He seemed intent only on reaching a group of his henchmen guarding the lock to the passenger tunnel; he dived straight toward them while I was pulling my little family along a lifeline stretching from the entrance to the corner I wanted to reach.  And did reach it and got through Budget Jets' door, and it contracted behind us and I breathed again and reswallowed my stomach.

            In the office of Budget Jets we found me manager, a Mr. Dockweiler, belted at his desk, smoking a cigar, and reading the Luna edition of the Daily Racing Form. He looked around as we came in and said, "Sorry, friends, I don't have a thing to rent or sell. Not even a witch's broom.*'

            I thought about who I was-Senator Richard Johnson, representing the enormously wealthy systemwide syndicate of sassafras snifters, one of the most powerful wheeler-dealers at The Hague-and let the Senator's voice speak for me. "Son, I'm Senator Johnson. I do believe that one of my staff made a reservation in my name earlier today-for a Hanshaw Superb."

            "Oh! Glad to meet you. Senator," he said as he clipped his paper to his desk and unfastened his seat belt. "Yes, I do have your reservation. But it's not a Superb. It's a Volvo."

            "What! Why, I distinctly told that girl - Never mind. Change it, please."

            "I wish I could, sir. I don't have anything else."

            "Regrettable. Would you be so kind as to consult your competitors and find me a-"

            "Senator, there is not a unit left for rent anywhere in Golden Rule. Morris Garage, Lockheed-Volkswagen, Hertz, Interplan-et-we've all been querying each other the past hour. No soap. No go. No units."

            It was time to be philosophical. "In that case I had better drive a Volvo, hadn't I, son?"

            The Senator again got just a touch cranky when required to pony up full list price on what was clearly a much-used car- I complained about dirty ashtrays and demanded that they be vacuumed out... then I said not to bother (when the terminal behind Dockweiler's head stopped talking about Ames and Novak) and said, "Let's check me mass and available delta vee; I want to lift."

            For a mass reading Budget Jets does not use a centrifuge but the newer, faster, cheaper, much more convenient, elastic inertiometer-I just wonder if it is as accurate. Dockweiler had us all get into the net at once (all but the bonsai, which he shook and wrote down as two kilos-near enough, maybe), asked us to hug each other with the Macy's package held firmly amongst us three, then pulled the trigger on the elastic support-shook our teeth out, almost; then he announced that our total mass for lift was 213.6 kilos.

            A few minutes later we were strapping to the cushions and Dockweiler was sealing the nose and then the inner door of the nest. He had not asked for IDs, tourist cards, passports, or motor vehicle pilot's licenses. But he had counted that nineteen thousand twice. Plus insurance. Plus cumshaw.

            I punched "213.6 kg" into my computer pilot, then checked my instrument board. Fuel read "full" and all the idiot lights showed green. I pushed the "ready" button and waited. Dockweiler's voice reached us via the speaker: "Happy landing!"

            "Thank you."

            The air charge went Whwnpf! and we were out of the nest and in bright sunlight. Ahead and close was the exterior of the spaceport. I squeezed the process control for a one-eighty reverse. As we swung, the habitat moved away and into my left viewport; ahead the incoming shuttle came into view-I did nothing about her; she had to keep clear of me, since I was undocking-and, into my right viewport came one of the most impressive sights in the system: Luna from close up, a mere three hundred kilometers-I could reach out and touch her.

            I felt grand.

            Those lying murdering scoundrels were left behind and we were forever out of reach of Sethos's whimsical tyranny. At first, living in Golden Rule had seemed happily loose and carefree. But I had learned. A monarch's neck should always have a noose around it-it keeps him upright.

            I was in the pilot's couch; Gwen had the copilot's position on my right. I looked toward her and then realized that I was still wearing that silly eyepatch. No, delete "silly"-it had, quite possibly, saved my life. I took it off, stuffed it into a pocket. Then I took that fez off, looked around for somewhere to put it-tucked it under my chest belt. "Let's see if we are secure for space," I said.

            "Isn't it a little late for that, Richard?"

            "I always do my check-off lists after I lift," I told her. "I'm the optimistic type. You have a purse and a large package from Macy's; how arc they secured?"

            "They arc not, as yet. If you will refrain from goosing mis craft while I do it, I'll unstrap and net them." She started to unstrap.

            "Woops! Before unstrapping you must get permission from the pilot."

            "I thought I had it."

            "You do now. But don't make that mistake again. Mr. Christian, His Majesty's Ship Bounty is a taut ship and will remain that way. Bill! How are you doing back there?"

            " 'M okay."

            "Are you secure in all ways? When I twist her tail, I don't want any loose change flying around the cabin."

            "He's belted in properly," Gwen assured me. "I checked him. He is holding Tree-San's pot flat against his tummy and he has my promise that, if he lets go of it, we will bury him without rites."

            "I'm not sure it will stand up under acceleration."

            "Neither am I but there was no way to pack it. At least it will be in the correct attitude for acceleration-and I'm reciting some spells. Dear man, what can I do with this wig? It's the one Naomi uses for public performances; it's valuable. It was sweet indeed of her to insist that I wear it-it was the final, convincing touch, I think-but I don't see how to protect it. It's at least as sensitive to acceleration as Tree-San."

            "Durned if I know-and that's my official opinion. But I doubt that I will need to push this go-buggy higher than two gee." I thought about it. "How about the glove compartment? Take all of the Kleenex out of the dispenser and crumple it up around the wig. And some inside it. Will that work?"

            "I think so. Time enough?"

            "Plenty of time. I made a quick estimate at Mr. Dockweiler's office. In order to land at Hong Kong Luna port and in sunlight I should start moving into a lower orbit about twenty-one hundred. Loads of time. So go ahead, do whatever you need to do... while I tell the computer pilot what I want to do. Gwen, can you read all the instruments from your side?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Okay, that's your job, that and the starboard viewport. I'll stick to power, attitude, and this baby computer. By the way, you're licensed, aren't you?"

            "No point in asking me now, is there? But let not your heart be troubled, dear; I was herding sky junk before I was out of high school."

            "Good." I did not ask to see her license-as she had pointed out, it was too late to matter.

            And I had noticed that she had not answered my question.

            (If ballistics bores you, here is another place to skip.)

            A daisy-clipping orbit of Luna (assuming that Luna has daisies, which seems unlikely) takes an hour and forty-eight minutes and some seconds. Golden Rule, being three hundred kilometers higher than a tall daisy, has to go farther than the circumference of Luna (10,919 kilometers), namely 12,805 kilometers. Almost two thousand kilometers farther-so it has to go faster. Right?

            Wrong. (I cheated.)

            The most cock-eyed, contrary to all common sense, difficult aspect of ballistics around a planet is this: To speed up, you slow down; to slow down, you speed up.

            I'm sorry. That's the way it is.

            We were in the same orbit as Golden Rule, three hundred klicks above Luna, and floating along with the habitat at one and a half kilometers per second (1.5477 k/s is what I punched into the pilot computer... because that was what it said on the crib sheet I got in Dockweiler's office). In order to get down to the surface I had to get into a lower (and faster) orbit... and the way to do that was to slow down.

            But it was more complex than that. An airless landing requires that you get down to the lowest (and fastest) orbit... but you have to kill that speed so that you arrive at contact with the ground at zero relative speed-you must keep bending it down so that contact is straight down and without a bump (or not much) and without a skid (or not much)-what they call a "synergistic" orbit (hard to spell and even harder to calculate).

            But it can be done. Armstrong and Aldrin did it right the first time. (No second chances!) But despite all their careful mathematics it turned out there was one hell of a big rock in their way. Sheer virtuosity and a hatful of fuel bought them a landing they could walk away from. (If they had not had that hatful of fuel left, would space travel have been delayed half a century or so? We don't honor our pioneers enough.)

            There is another way to land. Stop dead right over the spot where you want to touch down. Fall like a rock. Brake with your jet so precisely that you kiss the ground like a juggler catching an egg on a plate.

            One minor difficulty- Right-angled turns are about the most no-good piloting one can do. You waste delta vee something scandalous-your boat probably doesn't carry that much fuel. ("Delta vee"-pilot's jargon for "change in velocity" because, in equations, Greek letter delta means a fractional change and "v" stands for velocity-and please remember that "velocity" is a direction as well as a speed, which is why rocket ships don't make U-tums.)

            I set about programming into the Volvo's little pilot computer the sort of synergistic landing Armstrong and Aldrin made but one not nearly as sophisticated. Mostly I had to ask the piloting computer to call up from its read-only memory its generalized program for landing from an orbit circum Luna... and it docilely admitted that it knew how... and then I had to inject data for this particular landing, using the crib sheet supplied by Budget Jets.

            Finished with that, I told the computer pilot to check what I had entered; it reluctantly conceded that it had all it needed to land at Hong Kong Luna at twenty-two hundred hours seventeen minutes forty-eight point three seconds.

            Its clock read 1957. Just twenty hours ago a stranger calling himself "Enrico Schultz" had sat down uninvited at my table in Rainbow's End-and five minutes later he was shot. Since then, Gwen and I had wed, been evicted, "adopted" a useless dependent, been charged with murder, and run for our lives. A busy day!-and not yet over.

            I had been living in humdrum safety much too long. Nothing gives life more zest than running for your life. "Copilot."

            "Copilot aye aye!"

            "This is fun! Thank you for marrying me."

            "Roger, Captain darling! Me, too!"

            This was my lucky day, no doubt about it! A lucky break in the timing had kept us alive. At this instant Chief Franco must be checking every passenger entering the twenty o'clock shuttle, waiting for Dr. Ames and Mistress Novak to claim their reservations-while we were already out the side door. But, while that critical tuning saved our lives. Lady Luck was still handing out door prizes.

            How? From Golden Rule's orbit our easiest landing on Luna would involve putting down at some point on the terminator- least fuel consumed, smallest delta vee. Why? Because we were already on that terminator line, going pole to pole, south to north, north to south, so our simplest landing was to bend it down where we were, never change our heading.

            To land in the east-west direction would involve throwing away our present motion, then expending still more delta vee making that foolish right-angle turn-then programming for landing. Maybe your bank account can afford this waste; your skycar cannot-you're going to find yourself sitting up there with no fuel and nothing under you but vacuum and rocks. Unappetizing.

            To save our necks I was happy to accept any landing field on Luna... but that door prize from Lady Luck included landing at my preferred field (Hong Kong Luna) just about daybreak there, with only an hour spent parked in orbit waiting for the time to tell the computer pilot to take us down. What more could I ask for?

            At that moment we were floating over the backside of the Moon-as corrugated as the backside of an alligator. Amateur pilots do not land on the far side of Luna for two reasons: 1) mountains-the side of the Moon turned away from Earth makes the Alps look like Kansas; 2) settlements-there aren't any to speak of. And let's not speak of settlements that aren't to speak of, because it might make some unspeakable settlers quite angry.

            In another forty minutes we would be over Hong Kong Luna just as sunrise was reaching it. Before that time I would ask for clearance to land and for ground control on the last and touchiest part of landing-then spend the next two hours in going around behind again and gently lowering the Volvo down for landing. Then it would be time to turn control over to Hong Kong Luna ground control but, I promised myself, I would stay on overrides and work the landing myself, just for drill. How long had it been since I had shot an airless landing myself? Calhsto, was it? What year was that? Too long!

            At 2012 we passed over Luna's north pole and were treated to earthrise... a breathtaking sight no matter how many times one has seen it. Mother Earth was in half phase (since we were ourselves on Luna's terminator) with the lighted half to our left. It being only days past summer solstice, the north polar cap was tilted into full sunlight, dazzling bright. But North America was almost as bright, being heavily cloud-covered except part of the Mexican west coast.

            I found that I was holding my breath, and Gwen was squeezing my hand. I almost forgot to call HKL ground control.

            "Volvo Bee Jay Seventeen calling HKL Control. Do you read me?"

            "Bee Jay Seventeen affirm. Go ahead."

            "Request clearance to land approx twenty-two hundred seventeen forty-eight. Request ground-controlled landing with manual override. I am out of Golden Rule and still in Golden Rule orbit approx six klicks west of her. Over."

            "Volvo Bee Jay Seventeen. Cleared to land Hong Kong Luna approx twenty-two seventeen forty-eight. Shift to satellite channel thirteen not later than twenty-one forty-nine and be ready to accept ground control. Warning: You must start standard descent program that orbit at twenty-one oh-six nineteen and follow it exactly. If at insertion for ground-controlled landing you are off in vector three percent or in altitude four klicks, expect wave off. Control HKL."

            "Roger wilco." I added, "I'll bet you don't realize that you are talking to Captain Midnight, the Solar System's hottest pilot"-but I shut off the mike before I said it.

            Or so I thought. I heard a reply, "And this is Captain Hem-orrhoid Hives, Luna's nastiest ground-control pilot. You're going to buy me a liter of Glenlivet after I bring you down. If I bring you down."

            I checked that microphone switch-didn't seem to be anything wrong with it. I decided not to acknowledge. Everybody knows that telepathy works best in a vacuum... but there ought to be some way for an ordinary Joe to protect himself against supermen.

            (Such as knowing when to keep his mouth shut.) I set the alarm for twenty-one hours, then processed to attitude straight down and, for the next hour, enjoyed the ride while holding hands with my bride. The incredible mountains of the Moon, taller and sharper than the Himalayas and tragically desolate, flowed by ahead of (under) us. The only sound was the soft murmur of the computer and the sighing of the air scavenger-and a regular, annoying sniff from Bill. I shut out all sound and invited my soul. Neither Gwen nor I felt like talking. It was a happy interlude, as peaceful as the Old Mill Stream.

            "Richard! Wake up!"

            "Huh? I wasn't asleep."

            "Yes, dear. It's past twenty-one.**

            Uh... so it was. Twenty-one oh-one and ticking. What happened to the alarm? Never mind that now-I had five minutes and zip seconds to make sure we entered descent program on time. I hit the control to process, from headstand to bel-lywhopper backwards-easiest for descent, although supine backwards will work just as well. Or even sideways backwards. Whichever, the jet nozzle must point against the direction of motion in order to reduce speed for insertion into landing program-i.e., "backwards" for the pilot, like me Fillyloo Bird. (But I'm happiest when the horizon looks "right" for the way I'm belted in; that's why I prefer to put the skycar into bel-lywhopper backwards.)

            As soon as I felt the Volvo start to process I asked the computer if it was ready to start landing program, using standard code from the list etched on its shell.

            No answer. Blank screen. No sound.

            I spoke disparagingly of its ancestry. Gwen said, "Did you punch the execute button?"

            "Certainly I did!" I answered and punched it again.

            Its screen lit up and the sound came on at teeth-jarring level:

            "How do you spell comfort? For the wise Luna citizen today, overworked, overstimulated, overstressed, it is spelled C, 0, M, F, I, E, S-that's Comfies, the comfort therapists recommend most for acid stomach, heartburn, gastric ulcers, bowel spasm, and simple tummy ache. Comfies! They Do More! Manufactured by Tiger Balm Pharmaceuticals, Hong Kong Luna, makers of medicines you can rely on. C, 0, M, F, I, E, S, Comfies! They Do More! Ask your therapist." Some screech owls started singing about the delights of Comfies.

            "This damn thing won't turn off!"

            "Hit it!"

            "Huh?"

            "Hit it, Richard."

            I could not see any logic in that but it did meet my emotional needs; I slapped it, fairly hard. It continued to spout inanities about over-priced baking soda.

            "Dear, you have to hit it harder than that. Electrons are timid little things but notional; you have to let them know who's boss. Here, let me." Gwen walloped it a good one-I thought she would crack the shell.

            It promptly displayed:

            Ready for descent-Zero Time = 21-06-17.0.

            Its clock showed 21-05-42.7

            -which gave me just time to glance at the altimeter radar (which showed 298 klicks above ground, steady) and at the doppler readout, which showed us oriented along our motion-over-ground line, close enough for government work... although what I could have done about it in ca. ten seconds I do not know. Instead of using fractional jets paired in couples to control attitude, a Volvo uses gyros and processes against them- cheaper than twelve small jets and a mess of plumbing. But slower.

            Then, all at once, the clock matched the zero time, the jet cut in, shoving us into the cushions, and the screen displayed the program of bums-the topmost being:

            21-06-17.0-

            -19 seconds 21-06-36.0

            Sweet as could be, the jet cut off after nineteen seconds without even clearing its throat. "See?" said Gwen. "You just have to be firm with it."

            "I don't believe in animism."

            "You don't? How do you cope with- Sorry, dear. Never mind; Gwen will take care of such things."

            Captain Midnight made no answer. You couldn't truthfully say that I sulked. But, damn it all, animism is sheer superstition. (Except about weapons.)

            I had shifted to channel thirteen and we were just coming up on the fifth bum. I was getting ready to turn control over to HKL GCL (Captain Hives) when that dear little electronic idiot crashed its RAM-its Random Access Memory on which was written our descent program. The table of bums on the screen dimmed, quivered, shrank to a dot and disappeared. Frantically I punched the reset key-nothing happened.

            Captain Midnight, undaunted as usual, knew just what to do. "Gwen! It lost the program!"

            She reached over and clouted it. The bum schedule was not restored-a RAM, once crashed, is gone forever, like a burst soap bubble-but it did boot up again. A cursor appeared in the upper left comer of the screen and blinked inquiringly. Gwen said, "What time is your next bum, dear? And how long?"

            'Twenty-one, forty-seven, seventeen, I think, for, uh, eleven seconds. I'm fairly sure it was eleven seconds."

            "I check you on both figures. So do that one by hand, then ask it to recompute what it lost."

            "Righto." I typed in the bum. "After this one I'm ready to accept control from Hong Kong."

            "So we're out of the woods, dear-one bum by hand and then ground control takes over. But we'll recompute just for insurance."

            She sounded more optimistic than I felt. I could not remember what vector and altitude I was supposed to achieve for take-over by ground control. But I had no time to worry about it; I had to set up this bum.

            I typed it in:

            21-47-17.0-

            -11.0 seconds 21-47-28.0

            I watched the clock and counted with it. At exactly seventeen seconds past 2147 I jabbed the firing button, held it down. The jet fired. I don't know whether I fired it or the computer did. I held my finger down as the seconds ticked off and lifted it exactly on eleven seconds.

            The jet kept on firing.

            ("-run in circles, scream and shout!") I wiggled the firing button. No, it was not stuck. I slapped the shell. The jet kept on roaring and shoving us into the cushions.

            Gwen reached over and cut power to the computer. The jet stopped abruptly.

            I tried to stop trembling. "Thank you, Copilot."

            "Yessir."

            I looked out, decided that the ground seemed closer than I liked, so I checked the altimeter radar. Ninety something-the third figure was changing. "Gwen, I don't think we're going to Hong Kong Luna."

            "I don't think so, either."

            "So now the problem is to get this junk out of the sky without cracking it."

            "I agree, sir."

            "So where are we? An educated guess, I mean. I don't expect miracles." The stuff ahead-behind, rather; we were still oriented for braking-looked as rough as the back side. Not a place for an emergency landing.

            Gwen said, "Could we face around the other way? If we could see Golden Rule, that would tell us something."

            "Okay. Let's see if it responds." I clutched the processing control, told the skycar to swing one-eighty degrees, passing through headstand again. The ground was noticeably closer. Our skycar settled down with the horizon running right and left-but with the sky on the "down" side. Annoying... but all we wanted was to look for our late home. Golden Rule habitat. "Do you see it?"

            "No, I don't, Richard."

            "It must be over the horizon, somewhere. Not surprising, it was pretty far away the last time we looked-and that last bum was a foul blast. A long one. So where are we?"

            "When we swung past that big crater- Aristoteles?"

            "Not Plato?"

            "No, sir. Plato would be west of our track and still in shadow.

            It could be some ringwall I don't know... but that smooth stuff-that fairly smooth stuff-south of us makes me think that it must be Aristoteles."

            "Gwen, it doesn't matter what it is; I've got to try to put this wagon down on that smooth stuff. That fairly smooth stuff. Unless you have a better idea?"

            "No, sir, I do not. We're falling. If we speeded up enough to maintain a circular orbit at this altitude, we probably would not have enough fuel to bring her down later. That's a guess."

            I looked at the fuel gauge-that last long, foul blast had wasted a lot of my available delta vee. No elbow room. "I think your guess is a certainty-so we'll land. We'll see if our little friend can calculate a parabolic descent for this altitude- for I intend to kill our forward speed and simply let her drop, once we are over ground that looks smooth. What do you think?"

            "Uh, I hope we have fuel enough."

            "So do I. Gwen?"

            "Yes, sir?"

            "Honey girl, it's been fun."

            "Oh, Richard! Yes."

            Bill said in a choked voice, "Uh, I don't think I can-"

            I was processing to put us back into a braking attitude. "Pipe down. Bill; we're busy!" Altimeter showed eighty something- how long did it take to fall eighty klicks in a one-sixth gee field? Switch on the pilot computer again and ask it? Or do it in my head? Could I trust the pilot computer not to switch on the jet again if I fed it juice?

            Better not risk it. Would a straight-line approximation tell me anything? Let's see- Distance equals one half acceleration multiplied by the square of the time, all in centimeters and seconds. So eighty klicks is, uh, eighty thousand, no, eight hund- No, eight million centimeters. Was that right?

            One-sixth gee- No, half of one sixty-two. So bring it across and take the square root-

            One hundred seconds? "Gwen, how long till impact?"

            "About seventeen minutes. That's rough; I just rounded it off in my head."

            I took another quick look inside my skull, saw that in failing to allow for forward vector-the "fall-around" factor-my "approximation" wasn't even a wild guess. "Close enough. Watch the doppler; I'm going to kill some forward motion. Don't let me kill all of it; we'll need some choice in where to put down."

            "Aye, aye. Skipper!"

            I switched power to the computer; the jet immediately fired. I let it run five seconds, cut power. The jet sobbed and quit. "That," I said bitterly, "is one hell of a way to handle the throttle. Gwen?"

            "Just crawling along now. Can we swing and see where we're going?"

            "Sure thing."

            "Senator-"

            "Bill-shut up!" I tilted it around another hundred and eighty degrees. "See a nice smooth pasture ahead?"

            "It all looks smooth, Richard, but we're still almost seventy klicks high. Should get down pretty close before you kill all your forward speed, maybe? So you can see any rocks."

            "Reasonable. How close?"

            "Uh, how does one klick sound?"

            "Sounds close enough to hear the wings of the Angel of Death. How many seconds till impact? For one-kilometer height, I mean."

            "Uh, square root of twelve hundred plus. Call it thirty-five seconds."

            "All right. You keep watching height and terrain. At about two klicks I want to start to kill the forward speed. I've got to have time to twist another ninety degrees after that, to back down tail first. Gwen, we should have stayed in bed."

            "I tried to tell you that, sir. But I have faith in you."

            "What is faith without works? I wish I was in Paducah. Time?"

            "Six minutes, about."

            "Senator-"

            "Bill, shut up! Shall we trim off half me remaining speed?"

            "Three seconds?"

            I gave a three-second blast, using the same silly method of starting and stopping the jet.

            'Two minutes, sir."

            "Watch the doppler. Call it." I started the jet.

            "Now!"

            I stopped it abruptly and started to process, tail down, "windshield" up. "How does it read?"

            "We're as near dead in the water as can be done that way, I think. And I wouldn't fiddle with it; look at that fuel reading."

            I looked and didn't like it. "All right, I don't blast at all until we are mighty close." We steadied in the heads-up attitude-nothing but sky in front of us. Over my left shoulder I could see the ground at about a forty-five-degree angle. By looking past Gwen I could see it out the starboard side, too, but at quite a distance-a bad angle, useless. "Gwen, how long is this buggy?"

            "I've never seen one out of a nest. Does it matter?"

            "It matters a hell of a lot when I'm judging how far to the ground by looking past my shoulder."

            "Oh. I thought you meant exactly. Call it thirty meters. One minute, sir."

            I was about to give it a short blast when Bill blasted. So the poor devil was space sick but at that instant I wished him dead. His dinner passed between our heads and struck the forward viewport, there spread itself. "Bill!" I screamed. "Stop that!"

            (Don't bother to tell me that I made an unreasonable demand.)

            Bill did the best he could. He trained his head to the left and deposited his second volley on the left viewport-leaving me flying blind.

            I tried. With my eyes on the radar altimeter I gave it a quick blast-and lost that, too. I'm sure that someday they will solve the problem of accurate low-scale readings taken through jet blast and fouled by "grass" from terrain-I was just bom too soon, that's all. "Gwen, I can't see!"

            "I have it, sir." She sounded calm, cool, relaxed-a fit mate for Captain Midnight. She was looking over her right shoulder at the Lunar soil; her left hand was on the power switch to the pilot computer, our emergency "throttle."

            "Fifteen seconds, sir... ten... five." She closed the switch.

            The jet blasted briefly, I felt the slightest bump, and we had weight again.

            She turned her head and smiled. "Copilot reports-" And lost her smile, looked startled, as we felt the car swing. Did you ever play tops as a kid? You know how a top behaves

            as it winds down? Around and around, deeper and deeper, as

            it slowly goes lower, lays itself down and stops? That's what

            this pesky Volvo did.

            Until it lay full length on the surface and rolled. We wound

            up still strapped, safe and unbruised-and upside down. Gwen continued, "-reports touchdown, sir." "Thank you, Copilot."

            X

            'It is useless for sheep to pass resolutions in favor of vegetarianism while wolves remain of a different opinion."

            WILLIAM RALPH INGE, D. D. 1860-1954

            "There's one born every minute."

            P. T. BARNUM 1810-1891

            I added, 'That was a beautiful landing, Gwen. PanAm never set a ship down more gently."

            Gwen pushed aside her kimono skirt, looked out. "Not all that good. I simply ran out of fuel."

            "Don't be modest. I especially admired that last little gavotte that laid the car down flat. Convenient, since we don't have a landing-field ladder here."

            "Richard, what made it do that?"

            "I hesitate to guess. It may have had something to do with the processing gyro... which may have tumbled. No data, no opinion. Dear, you look charming in that pose. Tristram Shandy was right; a woman looks her best with her skirts flung over her head."

            "I don't think Tristram Shandy ever said that."

            'Then he should have. You have lovely legs, dear one."

            'Thank you. I think. Now will you kindly get me out of this mess? My kimono is tangled in the belt and I can't unfasten it."

            "Do you mind if I get a picture first?"

            Gwen sometimes makes unladylike retorts; it is then best to change the subject. I got my own safety belt loose, made a quick, efficient descent to the ceiling by falling on my face, got up and tackled, freeing Gwen. Her belt buckle wasn't really a problem; it was just that she could not see it to clear it. I did so and made sure that she did not fall as I got her loose-set her on her feet and claimed a kiss. I felt euphoric-only minutes ago I would not have bet even money on landing alive.

            Gwen delivered payment and good measure. "Now let's get Bill loose."

            "Why can't he-"

            "He doesn't have his hands free, Richard."

            When I let go my bride and looked, I saw what she meant. Bill was hanging upside down with a look of patient suffering on his face. My- Our bonsai maple he held pressed against his belly, the plant unhurt. He looked solemnly at Gwen. "I didn't drop it," he said defensively.

            I silently granted him absolution for throwing up during touch down. Anyone who can attend to a duty (even a simple one) during the agony of acute motion sickness can't be all bad. (But he must clean it up; absolution did not mean that I would clean up after him. Nor should Gwen. If she volunteered, I was going to be macho and husbandly and unreasonable.)

            Gwen took the maple and set it on the underside of the computer. Bill unbuckled himself while I supported him by his ankles, then I lowered him to the ceiling and let him straighten himself up. "Gwen, give Bill the pot and let him continue to take care of it. I want it out of the way... as I must get at the computer and the instrument board." Should I say out loud what was worrying me? No, it might make Bill sick again... and Gwen will have figured it out for herself.

            I lay down on my back and scrunched under the computer and instrument board, switched on the computer.

            A brassy voice I recognized said, "-Seventeen, do you read? Volvo Bee Jay Seventeen, come in. This is Hong Kong Luna ground control calling Volvo Bee Jay Seventeen-"

            "Bee Jay Seventeen here. Captain Midnight speaking. I read you. Hong Kong."

            "Why in hell don't you stay on channel thirteen. Bee Jay? You missed your checkpoint. Wave off. I can't bring you down."

            "Nobody can. Captain Hives; I am down. Emergency landing. Computer malfunction. Gyro malfunction. Radio malfunction. Jet malfunction. Loss of visibility. On landing we fell off our jacks. Fuel gone and attitude impossible for lift off anyhow. And now the air scavenger has quit."

            There was a fairly long silence. "Tovarishch, have you made your peace with God?"

            "I've been too bloody busy!"

            "Hmm. Understandable. How are you fixed for cabin pressure?"

            "The idiot light reads green. There's no gauge for it."

            "Where are you?"

            "I don't know. Things went sour at twenty-one forty-seven, just before I was to turn control over to you. I've spent the time since on a seat-of-the-pants descent. While I don't know where we are, we should be somewhere on Golden Rule's orbit track; our bums were all carefully oriented. We passed over what I think was Aristoteles at, uh-"

            'Twenty-one, fifty-eight," Gwen supplied.

            'Twenty-one, fifty-eight; my copilot logged it. I brought her down in a mare south of there. Lacus Somniorum?"

            "Wait one. Did you stay with the terminator?"

            "Yes. We still are. Sun is just at horizon."

            "Then you can't be that far east. Time of touch down?"

            I didn't have the foggiest. Gwen whispered, 'Twenty-two, oh-three, forty-one." I repeated, 'Twenty-two, oh-three, forty-one."

            "Hmm. Let me check. In that case you must be south of Eudoxus in the northernmost part of Mare Serenitatis. Mountains west of you?"

            "Big ones."

            "Caucasus range. You're lucky; you may yet live to be hanged. There are two inhabited pressures fairly close to you;

            there may be someone interested in saving you... for the pound of flesh nearest your heart, plus ten percent."

            "I'll pay."

            "You surely will! And if you're rescued, don't forget to ask for your bill from us, too; you may need us another day. All right, I'll pass the word. Hold it. Could this be some more of your Captain Midnight nonsense? If it is, I'll cut your liver out and toast it."

            "Captain Hives, I'm sorry about that, truly I am. I was simply kidding with my copilot and I thought my mike was cold. Should have been; I opened the switch. One of my endless problems with this collection of scrap."

            "You shouldn't kid around while maneuvering."

            "I know. But- Oh, what the hell. My copilot is my bride;

            today is our wedding day-just married. I've felt like laughing and joking all day long; it's that sort of a day."

            "If that is true-okay. And congratulations. But I'll expect you to prove it, later. And my name is Marcy, not Hives. Captain Marcy Choy-Mu. I'll pass the data along and we will try to locate you from orbit. Meantime, you had better get on channel eleven-that's emergency-and start singing Mayday. And I've got traffic, so-"

            Gwen was on her hands and knees, by me. "Captain Marcy!"

            "Huh? Yes?"

            "I really am his bride and he really did marry me just today and if he weren't a hot pilot, I wouldn't be alive this minute. Everything did go wrong, just as my husband said. It's been like piloting a barrel over Niagara Falls."

            "I've never seen Niagara Falls but I read you. My best wishes, Mrs. Midnight. May you have a long and happy life together, and lots of children."

            "Thank you, sir! If someone finds us before our air runs out, we will."

            Gwen and I took turns calling "Mayday, Mayday!" on channel eleven. When I was off duty, I checked into the resources and equipment of good old Volvo B. J. 17, the clunker. By the Protocol of Brasilia that skycar should have been equipped with reserve water, air, and food, a class two first-aid kit, minimum sanitary facilities, emergency pressure suits (UN-SN spec 10007A) for maximum capacity (four, including pilot).

            Bill spent his time cleaning viewports and elsewhere, using Kleenex salvaged from the glove compartment-Naomi's wig had come through okay. But he almost burst his bladder before he got up his nerve to ask me what to do. Then I had to teach him how to use a balloon... as the skycar's "minimum sanitary facilities" turned out to be a small package of rude expedients and a pamphlet telling how to use them if you just had to.

            The other emergency resources were of the same high standards.

            There was water in a two-liter drinking tank at the pilot's position-almost full. No reserve. But nothing to worry about as there was no reserve air, and we would suffocate in stale air before we could die of thirst. The air scavenger still was not working but there was a fitting to crank it by hand-all but the crank handle, which was missing. Food? Let's not joke. But Gwen had a Hershey bar in her purse; she broke it in three and shared it. Delicious!

            Pressure suits and helmets occupied most of the storage space back of the passenger couches-four of each, correct by the book. They were military surplus rescue suits, still sealed in their original cartons. Each carton was marked with contractor's name (Michelin Tires, S.A.) and date (twenty-nine years ago).

            Aside from the fact that the plasticizers would have bled out of all plastomers and elastomers-hoses, gaskets, etc.- in that time, and the fact that some roguish japester had neglected to supply air bottles, these pressure suits were just dandy. For a masquerade ball.

            Nevertheless I was prepared to trust my life to one of these clown suits for five minutes, or even ten, if the alternative involved exposing my bare face to vacuum.

            But if the alternative was merely rassling a grizzly bear, I'd holler, "Bring on your b'ar!"

            Captain Marcy called us, told us that a satellite camera showed us to be at thirty-five degrees seventeen north, fourteen degrees oh seven west. "I've notified Dry Bones Pressure and Broken Nose Pressure; they're nearest. Good luck."

            I tried to dig out of the computer a call directory for Luna. But it was still sulking; I could not get it to list its own directory. So I tried some test problems on it. It insisted that 2 + 2 = 3.9999999999999999999999.... When I tried to get it to admit that 4 = 2 + 2, it became angry and claimed that 4 = 3,14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937511 .... So I gave up.

            I left channel eleven switched on at full gain and got up off the ceiling. I found Gwen wearing a powder blue siren suit with a flame-colored scarf at her throat. She looked fetching.

            I said to her, "Sweetheart, I thought all your clothes were still in Golden Rule?"

            "I crowded this into the little case when we decided to abandon baggage. I can't keep up the pretense of being Japanese once I wash my face... which, I trust, you have noticed that I have done."

            "Not too well. Especially your ears."

            "Picky, picky! I used only a wet hanky of our precious drinking water. Beloved, I could not pack another safari suit- or whatever-for you. But I do have clean jockey shorts and a pair of socks for you.'^

            "Gwen, you're not only wholesome; you're efficient."

            " 'Wholesome'!"

            "But you are, dear. That's why I married you."

            "Hummph! When I figure out just how I've been insulted and how much, you are going to pay... and pay and pay and pay and pay!"

            This footless discussion was ended by the radio: "Volvo Bee Jay Seventeen, is that your Mayday? Over."

            "Yes indeed!"

            "This is Jinx Henderson, Happy Chance Salvage Service, Dry Bones Pressure. What do you need?" I described our situation, stated our latitude and longitude.

            Henderson answered, "You got this heap from Budget, right? Which means to me you didn't rent it; you bought it outright on a buy-back contract-I know those thieves. So now you own it. Correct?"

            I admitted that I was owner of record.

            "You plan to lift off and take it to Hong Kong? If so, what'll you need?"

            I thought some long thoughts in about three seconds. "I don't think this skycar will ever lift from here. It needs a major overhaul."

            "That means hauling it overland to Kong. Yeah, I can do that. Long trip, big job. Meantime personal rescue, two people-right?" "Three."

            "Okay, three. Are you ready to record a contract?" A woman's voice cut in. "Just stop right there. Jinx. Bee Jay Seventeen, this is Maggie Snodgrass, Chief Operator and General Manager of the Red Devil Fire, Police, and Rescue Team, Broken Nose Pressure. Do nothing till you hear my terms... 'cause Jinx is fixing to rob you." "Hi, Maggie! How's Joel?" "Fine as silk and meaner than ever. How's Ingrid?" "Purtier man ever and got another one in the oven." "Well, good for you! Congratulations! When's she expecting?"

            "Christmas or maybe New Year's, near as we can tell." "I'll plan on coming to see her before then. Now are you going to back off and let me treat this gentleman fairly? Or am I going to purely riddle your shell and let all the air out? Yes, I see you, coming over the rise-I started out same time you did, just as soon as Marcy gave the location. I said to Joel, 'That's our territory... but that lyin' scoundrel Jinx is going to try to steal it right out from under me'-and you didn't let me down, boy; you're here."

            "And planning to stay, Maggie-and quite ready to drop a little non-nuclear reminder right under your treads if you don't behave. You know the rules: Nothing on the surface belongs to nobody... unless they sit on it... or establish a pressure on it or under it."

            "That's your idea of the rules, not mine. That comes from those lawyer types in Luna City... and they don't speak for me and never did. Now let's shift to channel four-unless you want everybody in Kong to hear you beg for mercy and utter your last dying gasp."

            "Channel four it is, Maggie you old windy gut." "Channel four. Who'juh hire to make that baby. Jinx? If you were serious about salvage, you'd be out here with a transporter, same as roe-instead of your rolligon buggy."

            I had shifted to channel four when they did; I now kept quiet. Each had broken over the horizon about the same time, Maggie from southwest. Jinx from northwest. Since we had come to rest with the main viewport oriented west, we could see them easily. A rolligon lorry (had to be Henderson, from the talk) was in the northwest and a little closer. It had what seemed to be a bazooka mount just forward of its cabin. The transporter was a very long vehicle, with tractor treads at each end and a heavy-duty crane mounted aft. I did not see a bazooka mounted on it but I did see what could have been a Browning

            2.54 cm semi.

            "Maggie, I hurried out here in the roily for humanitarian reasons... something you wouldn't understand. But my boy Wolf is fetching my transporter, with his sister Gretchen manning the turret. Should be here soon. Shall I call them and tell them to go home? Or hurry along and avenge their pappy?"

            "Jinx, you don't really think I'd shoot holes in your cabin,

            do you?"

            "Yes, Maggie, I most surely do think you would. Which would just barely give me time to put one under your treads, that being where I'm aimed right now. On a dead-man trigger. Which would leave me dead... and you just sitting there, unable to move, and just waiting for what my kids would do to the party who done in their pappy... my turret gun having about three times the reach of your pea shooter. Which is why I got it... after Howie come to his death by mischance."

            "Jinx, are you trying to scandalize me with that old tale? Howie was my partner. You should be ashamed."

            "Not accusing you of anything, dear. Just cautious. How about it? Wait for my kids and I take all? Or divvy up, nice

            and polite?"

            I simply wished that these enthusiastic entrepreneurs would get on with it. Our air pressure light had blinked red and I was feeling a touch light-headed. I suppose that roll after landing opened a slow leak. I dithered between a need to tell them to hurry and a realization that my bad bargaining position would drop to zero or even minus if I did so.

            Mistress Snodgrass said thoughtfully, "Well, Jinx, it doesn't make sense to drag this junk to your pressure-north of mine- when it's about thirty klicks closer to take it to Kong by way

            of my place-south of yours. Right?"

            "Simple arithmetic, Maggie. And I have plenty of room in this buggy for three more... whereas I'm not sure you could take three passengers even if you stacked them like hotcakes."

            "I could handle them but I'll concede you have more room. All right, you take the three refugees and skin them all your conscience will let you... and I'll take the abandoned junker and salvage what I can out of it. If any."

            "Oh, no, Maggie! You're too generous; I wouldn't want to cheat you. Right down the middle. Written records. Confirmed."

            "Why, Jinx, do you think I would cheat you?"

            "Let's not debate that, Maggie; it would only cause grief. That skycar is not abandoned; its owner is inside it this very minute. Before you can move it, you must have a release from him... based on a recorded contract. If you don't want to be reasonable, he can wait right here for my transporter, and never abandon his property. No salvage, just cartage at hire... plus complimentary transportation for the owner and his guests."

            "Mr. What's-your-name, don't let Jinx fool you. He gets you and your car to his pressure, he'll peel you like an onion, till there's nothing left of you but the smell. I offer you a thousand crowns cash, right now, for that junk metal you're sitting in."

            Henderson countered, 'Two thousand, and I take you in to pressure. Don't let her swindle you; there is more salvage than she's offering in your computer alone."

            I kept quiet while these two ghouls settled how they were carving us up. When they had agreed, I agreed... with only nominal resistance. I objected that the price had gone up and was much too high. Mistress Snodgrass said, 'Take it or leave it." Jinx Henderson said, "I didn't get out of a warm bed to lose money on a job."

            I took it.

            So we wore those silly shelf-worn suits, almost as gas tight as a wicker basket. Gwen objected that Tree-San must not be exposed to vacuum. I told her to shut up and not be silly; a few moments' exposure would not kill the little maple-and we had run out of air, no choice. Then she was going to carry it. Then she let Bill carry it; she was busy otherwise-me.

            You see, I can't wear a pressure suit that has not been especially made for me... while wearing my artificial foot. So I had to remove it. So I had to hop. That's okay; I'm used to hopping, and at one-sixth gee hopping is no problem. But Gwen had to mother me.

            So here we go-Bill leading off with Tree-San, under instructions from Gwen to get inside fast and get some water from Mr. Henderson to spray on it, then Gwen and I followed as Siamese twins. She earned her small case with her left hand and put her right arm around my waist. I had my artificial foot slung over my shoulder, and I used my cane and hopped and steadied myself with my left arm around her shoulders. How could I tell her that I would have been steadier without her help? I kept my big mouth shut and let her help me.

            Mr. Henderson let us into the cab, then gasketed it tight and opened an air bottle lavishly-he had been running in vacuum, wearing a suit. I appreciated his lavish expenditure of air mix- oxygen wrested painfully from Lunar rock, nitrogen all the way from Earth-until I saw it next day on my bill at a fat price.

            Henderson stayed and helped Maggie wrestle old B. J. 17 onto her transporter, running her crane for her while she handled her tread controls, then he drove us to Dry Bones Pressure. I spent part of the time figuring out what it had cost me. I had had to sign away the skycar totally-net just under twenty-seven thousand. I had paid three thousand each to rescue us, discounted to eight thousand as a courtesy... plus five hundred each for bed and breakfast... plus (I learned later) eighteen hundred tomorrow to drive us to Lucky Dragon Pressure, the nearest place to catch a rolligon bus to Hong Kong Luna.

            On Luna it's cheaper to die.

            Still, I was happy to be alive at any price. I had Gwen and money is something you can always get more of.

            Ingrid Henderson was a most gracious hostess-smiling and pretty and plump (clearly expecting that child). She welcomed us warmly, woke up her daughter, moved her into a shakedown with them, put us in Gretchen's room, put Bill in with Wolf-at which point I realized that Jinx's threats to Maggie were not backed up by force at hand... and realized, too, that it was none of my business.

            Our hostess said goodnight to us, told us the light in the 'fresher was left on in the night, in case-and left. I looked at my watch before turning out me light.

            Twenty-four hours earlier a stranger night Schultz sat down at my table.

            BOOK Two-Deadly Weapon

            XI

            "Dear Lord, give me chastity and self-restraint... but not yet, 0 Lord, not yet!"

            SAINT AUGUSTINE A.D. 354-430

            That damned fez!

            That silly, fake-oriental headdress had been fifty percent of a disguise that had saved my life. But, having used it, the coldly pragmatic thing to do would have been to destroy it.

            I did not. I had felt uneasy about wearing it, first because I am not any sort of a Freemason, much less a Shriner, and second because it was not mine; it was stolen.

            One might steal a throne or a king's ransom or a Martian princess and feel euphoric about it. But a hat? Stealing a hat was beneath contempt. Oh, I didn't reason this out; I simply felt uneasy about Mr. Clayton Rasmussen (his name I found inside his fez) and intended to restore his fancy headgear to him. Someday- Somehow- When I could manage it- When the rain stopped-

            As we were leaving Golden Rule habitat, I had tucked it under a belt and forgotten it. After touch down on Luna, as I unstrapped, it had fallen to the ceiling; I had not noticed. As we three were climbing into those breezy escape suits, Gwen had picked it up and handed it to me; I shoved it into the front of my pressure suit and zipped up.

            After we reached the Henderson home in Dry Bones Pressure and were shown where we were to sleep, I peeled down with my eyes drooping, so tired I hardly knew what I was doing. I suppose the fez fell out then. I don't know. I just cuddled up to Gwen and went right to sleep-and spent my wedding night in eight hours of unbroken sleep.

            I think my bride slept just as soundly. No matter-we had had a grand practice run the night before.

            At the breakfast table Bill handed me that fez. "Senator, you dropped your hat on the floor of the 'fresher."

            Also at the table were Gwen, the Hendersons-Ingrid, Jinx, Gretchen, Wolf-and two boarders, Eloise and Ace, and three small children. It was a good time for me to come out with a brilliant ad-lib that would account for my possession of this funny hat. What I said was, "Thank you. Bill."

            Jinx and Ace exchanged glances; then Jinx offered me Masonic recognition signs.

            That's what I have to assume they were. At the time I simply thought that he was scratching himself. After all, all Loonies scratch because all Loonies itch. They can't help it-not enough baths, not enough water.

            Jinx got me alone after breakfast. He said, "Noble-"

            I said, "Huh?" (Swift repartee!)

            "I couldn't miss it that you declined to recognize me there at the table. And Ace saw it, too. Are you by any chance thinking that the deal we made last night wasn't level and on the square?"

            (Jinx, you cheated me blind, six ways from zero.) "Why, nothing of the sort. No complaints." (A deal is a deal, you swiftie. I don't welch.)

            "Are you sure? I've never cheated a lodge brother-or an outsider, for that matter. But I take special care of any son of a widow just the way I would one of my own blood. If you think you paid too much for being rescued, then pay what you think is right. Or you can have it free."

            He added, "While I can't speak for Maggie Snodgrass, she'll make an accounting to me, and it will be honest; there is nothing small about Maggie. But don't expect that salvage to show too much net. Or maybe a loss by the time she sells it because- You know where Budget gets those crocks they rent, don't you?"

            I admitted ignorance. He went on, "Every year the quality leasers, like Hertz and Interplanet, sell off their used cars. The clean jobs are bought by private parties, mostly Loonies. The stuff needing lots of work goes to boomers. Then Budget Jets buys what's left at junkyard prices, starvation cheap. They rework that junk at their yard outside Loonie City, getting maybe two cars for each three they buy, then they sell as scrap whatever is left over. That jalopy that let you down-they charged you list, twenty-six thousand... but if Budget actually had as much as five thousand cash tied up in it, I'll give you the difference and buy you a drink, and that's a fact.

            "Now Maggie is going to recondition it again. But her repairs will be honest and her work guaranteed and she'll sell it for what it is-worn out, rebuilt, not standard. Maybe it will fetch ten thousand, gross. After fair charges for parts and labor, if the net she splits with me is more than three thousand, I'll be flabbergasted-and it might be a net loss. A gamble."

            I told a number of sincere lies and managed (I think) to convince Jinx that we were not lodge brothers and that I was not asking for discounts on anything and that I had come by that fez by accident, at the last minute-found it in the Volvo when I hired it.

            (Unspoken assumption: Mr. Rasmussen had hired that wagon in Luna City, then had left his headpiece in it when he turned in the Volvo at Golden Rule.)

            I added that the owner's name was in the fez and I intended to return it to him.

            Jinx asked, "Do you have his address?"

            I admitted that I did not-just the name of his temple, embroidered on the fez.

            Jinx stuck out his hand. "Give it to me; I can save you the trouble... and the expense of mailing a package back Earth-side."

            "How?"

            "Happens I know somebody who's bouncing a jumpbug to Luna City on Saturday. The Nobles' convention adjourns on Sunday, right after they dedicate their Luna City Hospital for

            Crippled and Birth-Damaged Children. There'll be a lost-and-found at the convention center; there always is. Since his name is in it, they'll get it to him-before Saturday evening, because that's the night of the drill team competition... and they know that a drill team member-if he is one-without his fez is as undressed as a bar hostess without her G-string."

            I passed the red hat over to him.

            I thought that would be the end of it.

            More hassle before we could get rolling for Lucky Dragon Pressure-no pressure suits. As Jinx put it: "Last night I okayed your using those leaky sieves because it was Hobson's Choice- it was risk it, or leave you to die. Today we could use them the same way-or we could even bring the buggy into the hangar and load you in without using suits. Of course that wastes an awful mass of air. Then do it again at the far end ... for an even greater air cost; their hangar is bigger."

            I said I would pay. (I didn't see how I could avoid it.)

            "That's not the point. Last night you were in the cab twenty minutes... and it took a full bottle to keep air around you. Late last night the Sun was just barely rising; this morning it's five degrees high. Raw sunlight is going to be beating against the side of that cab all the way to Lucky Dragon. Oh, Gretchen will drive in shadow all she can; we don't raise dumb kids. But any air inside the cabin would heat up and swell and come pouring out the cracks. So normal operation is to pressurize your suit but not the cabin, and use the cabin just for shade.

            "Now I won't lie to you; if I had suits to sell, I would insist that you buy three new suits. But I don't have suits. Nobody in this pressure has suits for sale. Less than a hundred fifty of us; I would know. We buy suits in Kong and that's what you should do."

            "But I'm not in Kong."

            I had not owned a pressure suit for more than five years. Permanent habitants of Golden Rule mostly do not own pressure suits; they don't need them, they don't go outside. Of course there are plenty of staff and maintenance who keep pressure suits always ready the way Bostonians keep overshoes. But the usual habitant, elderly and wealthy, doesn't own one, doesn't need one, wouldn't know how to wear one.

            Loonies are another breed. Even today, with Luna City over a million and some city dwellers who rarely if ever go outside, a Loonie owns his suit. Even that big-city Loonie knows from infancy that his safe, warm, well-lighted pressure can be broached-by a meteor, by a bomb, by a terrorist, by a quake or some other unpredictable hazard.

            If he's a pioneering type like Jinx, he's as used to a suit as is an asteroid miner. Jinx didn't even work his own tunnel farm; the rest of his family did that. Jinx habitually worked outside, a pressure-suited, heavy-construction mechanic; "Happy Chance Salvage" was just one of his dozen-odd hats. He was also the "Dry Bones Ice Company," "Henderson's Overland Cartage Company," "John Henry Drilling, Welding, and Rigging Contractors"-or you name it and Jinx would invent a company to fit.

            (There was also "Ingrid's Swap Shop" which sold everything from structural steel to homemade cookies. But not pressure suits.)

            Jinx worked out a way to get us to Lucky Dragon: Ingrid and Gwen were much the same size except that Ingrid was temporarily distended around the equator. She had a pregnancy pressure suit with an external corset that could be let out. She also had a conventional suit she wore when not pregnant, one she could not get into now-but Gwen could.

            Jinx and I were about of a height, and he had two suits, both first quality Goodrich Luna. I could see that he was about as willing to lend me one as a cabinetmaker is to lend tools. But he was under pressure to work something out, or he was going to have us as paying guests... and then as non-paying guests when our money ran out. And they didn't really have room for us even while I could still pay.

            It was after ten the next morning before we suited up and climbed into the rolligon-me in Jinx's second best, Gwen in Ingrid's not-pregnant suit, and Bill in a restored antique that had belonged to the founder of Dry Bones Pressure, a Mr. Soupie McClanahan, who had come to Luna long, long ago, before the Revolution, as an involuntary guest of the government.

            The plan was for each of us to get other temporary coverings at Lucky Dragon Pressure, wear them to HKL, and send them back via the public bus, while Gretchen took these suits back to her father after she let us off at Lucky Dragon. Then, tomorrow, we would be in Hong Kong Luna and able to buy pressure suits to fit our needs.

            I spoke to Jinx about payment. I could almost hear the numbers clicking over in his skull. Finally he said, "Senator, I tell you what. Those suits that came in your heap-not worth much. But there's some salvage in the helmets and in some of the metal fittings. Send my three suits back to me in the shape in which you got 'em and we'll call it even. If you think it is."

            I certainly thought it was. Those Michelin suits had been okay-twenty years ago. To me, today, they were worth nothing.

            It left just one problem-Tree-San.

            I had thought that I was going to have to be firm with my bride-an intention not always feasible. But I learned that, while Jinx and I had been working out what to do about pressure suits, Gwen had been working out what to do about Tree-San ... with Ace.

            I have no reason to think Gwen seduced Ace. But I'm sure Eloise thought so. However, Loonies have had their own customs about sex since back in the days when men outnumbered women six to one-by Lunar customs all options in sexual matters are vested in women, none in men. Eloise did not seem angry, just amused-which made it none of my business.

            As may be. Ace produced a silicone rubber balloon with a slit through which he inserted Tree-San, pot and all, then heat-sealed it-with an attachment for a one-liter air bottle. There was no charge, even for the bottle. I offered to pay, but Ace just grinned at Gwen and shook his head. So I don't know. I don't care to inquire.

            Ingrid kissed us all good-bye, made us promise to come back. It seemed unlikely. But a good idea.

            Gretchen asked questions the whole trip and never seemed to watch where she was driving. She was a dimpled, pigtailed blonde, a few centimeters taller than her mother but still padded with baby fat. She was much impressed by our travels. She herself had been to Hong Kong Luna twice and once all the way to Novylen where people talked funny. But next year, when she would be going on fourteen, she was going to go to Luna City and look over the studs there-and maybe bring home a husband. "Mama doesn't want me to have babies by anyone at Dry Bones, or even Lucky Dragon. She says it's a duty I owe my children to go out and fetch in some fresh genes. Do you know about that? Fresh genes, I mean."

            Gwen assured her that we did know and that she agreed with Ingrid: Outbreeding was a sound and necessary policy. I made no comment but agreed; a hundred and fifty people are not enough for a healthy gene pool.

            "That's how Mama got Papa; she went looking for him. Papa was born in Arizona; that's a part of Sweden back groundhog side. He came to Luna with a subcontractor for the Picardy Transmutation Plant and Mama got him at a masked mixer and gave him our family name when she was sure-about Wolf, I mean-and took him back to Dry Bones and set him up in business."

            She dimpled. We were chatting via our suit talkies but I could see her dimples right through her helmet by a happy chance of light. "And I'm going to do the same for my man, using my family share. But Mama says that I should not grab the first boy who's willing-as if I would!-and not to hurry or worry even if I'm still an old maid at eighteen. And I won't. He's got to be as good a man as Papa is."

            I thought privately that it might be a long search. Jinx Henderson ne John Black Eagle is quite a man.

            When at last we could see the Lucky Dragon parking lot, it was nearly sundown-in Istanbul, that is, as anyone could see by looking. Earth was almost due south of us and quite high, about sixty degrees; its terminator ran through the north desert of Africa and on up through the Greek Isles and Turkey. The Sun was still low in the sky, nine or ten degrees and rising. There would be nearly fourteen days more sunlight at Lucky Dragon before the next long dark. I asked Gretchen whether or not she intended to drive straight back.

            "Oh, no," she assured me. "Mama wouldn't like that. I'll stay overnight-bedroll there in the back-and start back fresh tomorrow. After you folks catch your bus."

            I said, "That isn't necessary, Gretchen. Once we're inside this pressure and can turn our suits back to you, there's no reason for you to wait."

            "Mr. Richard, are you yearning to have me spanked?"

            "You? 'Spanked'? Why, your father wouldn't do that. To you?-a grown woman, almost."

            "You might tell Mama that. No, Papa wouldn't; he hasn't for years and years. But Mama says I'm eligible until the day I first marry. Mama's a holy terror; she's a direct descendant of Hazel Stone. She said, 'Gret, you see about suits for them. Take them to Charlie so they won't be cheated. If he can't supply them, then see to it that they wear ours to Kong and you dicker with Lilybet to fetch ours back later. And you had better see them off on the bus, too.'"

            Gwen said, "But, Gretchen, your father warned us that the bus doesn't move until the driver has a load. Which could be a day or two. Even several days."

            Gretchen giggled. "Wouldn't that be terrible? I'd get a vacation. Nothing to do but catch up on the back episodes of Sylvia's Other Husband. Let's everybody feel sony for Gretchen! Mistress Gwen, you can call Mama this minute if you wish ... but I do have firm instructions."

            Gwen shut up, apparently convinced. We rolled to a stop about fifty meters from Lucky Dragon airlock, set in the side of a hill. Lucky Dragon is in the south foothills of the Caucasus range at thirty-two degrees twenty-seven minutes north. I waited, on one foot and leaning on my cane, while Bill and Gwen gave unnecessary help to a highly efficient young lady in spreading an awning slanted to keep the rolligon from direct sunlight for the next twenty-four hours or so.

            Then Gretchen called her mother on the roily's radio, reported our arrival, and promised to call again in the morning. We went through the airlock, Gwen carrying her case and purse and babying me. Bill carrying Tree-San and the package containing Naomi's wig, and Gretchen carrying a huge bedroll. Once inside, we helped each other shuck down; then I put my foot back on while Gretchen hung up my suit and hers, and Bill and Gwen hung theirs, on long racks opposite the airlock.

            Gwen and Bill picked up their burdens and headed for a public 'fresher around to the right of the airlock. Gretchen had turned to follow them when I stopped her. "Gretchen, hadn't I better wait here till you three get back?" "What for, Mr. Senator?" 'That suit of your papa's is valuable, and so is the one Mistress Gwen is wearing. Maybe everyone here is honest... but the suits aren't mine."

            "Oh. Maybe everybody here is honest but don't count on it. So Papa says. I wouldn't leave that darling little tree sitting around but don't ever worry about a p-suit; nobody ever touches another Loonie's p-suit. Automatic elimination at the nearest airlock. No excuses."

            "Just like that, eh?"

            "Yes, sir. Only it doesn't happen as everybody knows better. But I know about one case, before I was born. A new chum, maybe he didn't know any better. But he never did it again because a posse went after him and brought the p-suit back. But not him. They just left him to dry, there on the rocks. I've seen it, what's left of him. Horrid." She wrinkled her nose, then dimpled. "Now, may I be excused, sir? I'm about to wet

            my panties."

            "Sorry!" (I'm stupid. The plumbing in a man's p-suit is adequate, although just barely. But what the great brains have come up with for women is not adequate. I have a strong impression that most women will endure considerable discomfort rather than use it. I once heard one refer to it disparagingly as "the sand box.")

            At the door of the 'fresher my bride was waiting for me. She held out to me a half-crown coin. "Wasn't sure you had one, dear."

            "Huh?"

            "For the 'fresher. Air I have taken care of; Gretchen paid our one-day fees, so I paid her. We're back in civilization, dear-No Free Lunch."

            No free anything. I thanked her.

            I invited Gretchen to have dinner with us. She answered, "Thank you, sir; I accept-Mama said I could. But would you settle for ice-cream cones for now?-and Mama gave me the money to offer them to you. Because there are several things we should do before dinner."

            "Certainly. We're in your hands, Gretchen; you're the sophisticate; we're the tyros."

            "What's a 'tyro'T'

            "A new chum."

            "Oh. First we should go to Quiet Dreams tunnel and spread our bedrolls to hold our places so that we can all sleep together"-at which point I learned for the first time why Gretch-en's bedroll was so enormous: her mother's foresight, again- "but before that we had better put your names down with Lilybet for the bus... and before that, let's get those ice-cream cones if you're as hungry as I am. Then, last thing before dinner, we should go see Charlie about p-suits."

            The ice-cream cones were close at hand in the same tunnel as the racks: Borodin's Double-Dip Dandies, served by Kelly Borodin himself, who offered to sell me (in addition to lavish cones) used magazines from Earth, barely used magazines from Luna City and Tycho Under, candy, lottery tickets, horoscopes, Lunaya Pravda, the Luna City Lunatic, greeting cards (genuine Hallmark imitations), pills guaranteed to restore virility, and a sure cure for hangovers, compounded to an ancient Gypsy formula. Then he offered to roll me double or nothing for the cones. Gretchen caught my eye, and barely shook her head.

            As we walked away, she said, "Kelly has two sets of dice, one for strangers, another for people he knows. But he doesn't know that I know it. Sir, you paid for the cones... and now, if you don't let me pay you back, I'll get that spanking. Because Mama will ask me and I will have to tell her."

            I thought about it. "Gretchen, I have trouble believing that your mother would spank you for something / did."

            "Oh, but she would, sir! She will say that I should have had my money out and ready. And I should have."

            "Does she spank really hard? Bare bottom?"

            "Oh, my, yes! Brutal."

            "An intriguing thought. Your little bottom turning pink, while you cry."

            "I do not cry! Well, not much."

            "Richard."

            "Yes, Gwen?"

            "Stop it."

            "Now you listen to me, woman. Do not interfere in my relations with another woman. I-"

            "Richard!"

            "You spoke, dear?"

            "Mama spank."

            I accepted from Gretchen the price of the cones. I'm henpecked.

            THE APOCALYPSE AND KINGDOM COME BUS COMPANY Regular Runs to Hong Kong Luna

            Minimum Run-twelve (12) fares Charter runs ANYWHERE by dicker Next HKL run not before Noon tomorrow, July 3rd

            Sitting under the sign, rocking and knitting, was an elderly black lady. Gretchen addressed her: "Howdy, Aunt Lilybet!"

            She looked up, put down her knitting and smiled. "Gretchen hon! How's your momma, dear?"

            "Just fine. Bigging up by the day. Aunt Lilybet, I want you to meet our friends Mr. Senator Richard and Mistress Gwen and Mr. Bill. They need to go with you to Kong."

            "Pleased to meet you, friends, and happy to tote you to Kong. Plan on leaving noon tomorrow as you three make ten and if'n I don't get two more by noon, likely I can make it with cargo. That suit?"

            I assured her that it did and that we would be here before noon, p-suited and ready to roll. Then she gently suggested cash on the counter by pointing out that there were still seats on the shady side as some passengers had made reservations but had not yet paid. So I paid-twelve hundred crowns for three.

            We went next to Quiet Dreams tunnel. I don't know whether to call it a hotel or what-perhaps "flophouse" comes closest. It was a tunnel a little over three meters wide and running fifty-odd meters back into the rock, where it dead-ended. The middle and lefthand side of the tunnel was a rock shelf about a half meter higher than a walkway on the right. This shelf was laid out in sleeping billets, marked by stripes painted on the shelf and by large numbers painted on the wall. The billet nearest the passageway was numbered "50." About half the billets had bedrolls or sleeping bags on them.

            Halfway down the tunnel, on the right, the customary green light marked a refresher.

            At the head of this tunnel, seated and reading at a desk, was a Chinese gentleman in a costume that was out of fashion before Armstrong made that "one small step." He wore spectacles as old-fashioned as his dress and he himself appeared to be ninety years older than God and twice as dignified.

            As we approached he put down his book and smiled at Gretchen. "Gretchen. It is good to see you. How are your esteemed parents?"

            She curtsied. 'They are well. Dr. Chan, and they send you their greetings. May I present our guests Mr. Senator Richard and Mistress Gwen and Mr. Bill?"

            He bowed without getting up and shook hands with himself. "Guests of the House Henderson are most welcome in my

            house."

            Gwen curtsied, I bowed, and so did Bill, after I dug a thumb into his ribs-which Dr. Chan noticed while declining to notice it. I mumbled an appropriate formality. Gretchen went on,

            "We would like to sleep in your care tonight. Dr. Chan, if you will accept us. If so, are we early enough to be given four places side by side?"

            "Indeed yes... for your gracious mother spoke to me earlier. Your beds are numbers four, three, two, and one."

            "Oh, good! Thank you. Grandfather Chan."

            So I paid, for three, not four-I don't know whether Gretchen paid, or ran a bill, or what; I saw no money change hands. Five crowns per person per night, no extra charge for the refresher but two crowns if we wanted to shower-water not limited. Soap extra-half a crown.

            Having completed business. Dr. Chan said, "Does not the tree in bonsai require water?"

            Almost in chorus we agreed that it did. Our host examined the plastic film that enclosed it, then cut it open and most carefully removed the tree and pot. A vase at his desk turned out to be a water carafe; he filled a tumbler, then, using just his fingertips, he sprinkled it repeatedly. While he did this I sneaked at look at his book-a form of snoopiness I can't resist. It was The March of the Ten Thousand, in Greek.

            We left Tree-San with him, and Gwen's case as well.

            Our next stop was at Jake's Steak House. Jake was as Chinese as Dr. Chan but of another generation and style. He greeted us with: "Howdy, folks. What'U it be? Hamburgers? Or scrambled eggs? Coffee or beer?"

            Gretchen spoke to him in a tonal language-Cantonese, I suppose. Jake looked annoyed and retorted. Gretchen threw it back at him. Remarks slammed back and forth. At last he looked disgusted, and said, "Okay. Forty minutes"-turned his back and walked away. Gretchen said, "Come, please. Now we go to see Charlie Wang about suits."

            As we walked away she said privately, "He was trying to get out of doing his best cooking, as it is much more work. But the worst argument was over price. Jake wanted me to keep quiet while he charged you tourist prices. I told him, if he charged you more than he would charge my Papa, then my Papa would stop in next time and cut off his ears and feed mem to him, raw. Jake knows that Papa would do exactly mat."

            Gretchen smiled with shy pride. "My Papa is deeply respected in Lucky Dragon. Back when I was young. Papa eliminated a boomer here who tried to take something free from a singsong girl, something he had agreed to pay for. Everybody remembers it. The singsong girls of Lucky Dragon made Mama and me honorary members of their guild."

            The sign read: Wang Chai-Lee, Custom Tailoring for Ladies and Gentlemen-p-suit repairs a specialty. Gretchen again introduced us and explained what we needed. Charlie Wang nodded. "Bus rolls at noon? Be here at ten-thirty. In Kong you return the suits to my cousin Johnny Wang at Sears Montgomery, p-suit department. I'll call him."

            Then we went back to Jake's Steak House. It wasn't steak and it was not chop suey or chow mein and it was wonderfully good. We ate until we were full to our eyeballs.

            When we got back to Quiet Dreams tunnel, the overhead lights were out and many of the billets were occupied by sleeping figures. A glow strip ran down the side of me billets shelf, where it could not shine into the eyes of a sleeping guest but would light the way of anyone moving around. There was a reading light at Dr. Chan's desk, shielded from the sleepers. He appeared to be working on his accounts, as he was operating a terminal with one hand and an abacus with the other. He greeted us soundlessly; we whispered goodnight.  Coached by Gretchen we got ready for bed: Undress, fold your clothing and put it and your shoes under the head of your bedroll as a pillow. I did so, and added my cork foot. But I left on my underwear shorts, having noticed that Gwen and Gretchen had left on their panties-and Bill put his back on when he somewhat belatedly noticed what the rest of us did. We all headed for the refresher.

            Even this nominal sop to modesty did not last; we showered together. There were three men in the 'fresher when we went in; all were naked. We followed the ancient precept: "Nakedness is often seen but never looked at." And the three men most strictly followed this rule: We weren't there, we were invisible. (Save that I feel certain that no male can totally ignore Gwen and Gretchen.)

            I could not totally ignore Gretchen and did not try. Naked, she looked years older and deliciously enticing. I think she had a sunlamp tan. I know she had dimples I had not seen before. I see no need to go into details; all females are beautiful at the point where they burst into full womanhood, and Gretchen had the added beauty of good proportions and a sunny disposition. She could have been used to tempt Saint Anthony.

            Gwen handed me the soap. "All right, dear; you can scrub her back-but she can wash her front herself."

            I answered with dignity, "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't expect to wash anyone's back, as I need a hand free for grab and balance. You forget that I'm an expectant mother."

            "You're a mother, all right."

            "Who's calling whom a mother? I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head."

            "Richard, this is getting to be beneath even my dignity. Gretchen, you wash his back; that's safest. I'll referee."

            It wound up with everyone washing whatever he/she could reach-even Bill-and was not efficient but fun, with lots of giggles. They were both of the extremely opposite sex and just being around them was fun.

            By twenty-two we were settled down for the night, Gretchen at the end wall, Gwen beside her, then me, then Bill. At one-sixth gee a rock shelf is softer than a foam mattress in Iowa. I went to sleep quickly.

            Sometime later-an hour? two hours?-I came awake because a warm body cuddled against me. I murmured, "Now, honT' Then I came a bit wider awake. "Gwen?"

            "It's me, Mr. Richard. Would you really want to see my bottom turn all pink? And hear me cry?"

            I whispered tensely, "Honey, get back over by the wall."

            "Please."

            "No, dear."

            "Gretchen," Gwen said softly, "get back where you belong, dear... before you wake others. Here, I'll help you roll over me." And she did, and took the woman-child in her arms and talked to her. They stayed that way and (I think) went to sleep.

            It took me quite a while to get back to sleep.

            XII

            "\Ve are too proud to Fight."

            WOODROW WILSON 1856-1924

            Violence never settles anything."

            GENGHISKHAN 1162-1227

            'The mice voted to bell the cat."

            AESOP c. 620-c. 560 B.C.

            Kissing good-bye while wearing pressure suits is depress-ingly antiseptic. So I think and I am sure Gretchen thought so, too. But that is the way it worked out.

            Last night Gwen had saved me from "a fate worse than death" and for that I was grateful. Well, moderately grateful. Certainly an old man tripped by a barely nubile female not yet into her teens (Gretchen would not be thirteen for another two months) is a ridiculous sight, an object of scorn to all right-thinking people. But, from the time the night before when Gretchen had made it plain to me that she did not consider me too old, I had been feeling younger and younger. By sundown I should be suffering the terminal stages of senile adolescence.

            So let the record show that I am grateful. That's official.

            Gwen was relieved, I felt sure, when at noon Gretchen waved us good-bye from the cab of her father's rolligon lorry,

            as we rolled south in Aunt Lilybet's rolligon bus, the Hear Me, Jesus.

            The Hear Me was much larger than Jinx's lorry, and fancier, being painted in bright colors with Holy Land scenes and Bible quotations. It could carry eighteen passengers, plus cargo, driver, and shotgun-the last riding in a turret high above the driver. The bus's tires were enormous, twice as tall as I am; they shouldered up above the passenger space, as its floor rested on the axles, high as my head. There were ladders on each side to reach access doors between the front and rear tires.

            Those big tires made it hard to see out to the sides. But Loonies aren't much interested in scenery, as most Lunar scenery is interesting only from orbit. From the Caucasus to the Haemus Mountains-our route-the floor of Mare Serenitatis has hidden charms. Thoroughly hidden. Most of it is flat as a pancake and as interesting as cold pancakes without butter or syrup.

            Despite this I was glad that Aunt Lilybet had placed us in the first row on the right-Gwen at the window, me next, Bill on my left. It meant that we could see all that the driver saw out front and also we could see somewhat out to the right because we were forward of the front axle and thereby could see past the tire. We could not see too clearly to the right, as the plastic of the pressure window was old and crazed and yellowed. But forward Aunt Lilybet had her big driver's port raised and fastened back; the view was as clear as our helmets permitted-excellent for us; the equipment rented to us by Charlie Wang took the curse off raw sunlight without noticeably interfering with seeing, like good sun spectacles.

            We didn't talk much because passengers' suit radios were all on a common frequency-a babel, so we kept ours turned down. Gwen and I could talk by touching helmets, but not easily. I amused myself by trying to keep track of where we were going. Neither magnetic compasses nor gyro compasses are useful on Luna. Magnetism (usually none) means an ore body rather than a direction, and Luna's spin, while it exists (one revolution per month!), is too leisurely to affect a gyro compass. An inertial tracker will work but a good one is extremely expensive-although I can't see why; the art was perfected long ago for guided missiles.

            From this face of Luna you always have Earth to steer by and half the time you have the Sun as well. The stars? Certainly, the stars are always there-no rain, no clouds, no smog. Oh, sure! Look, I have news for any groundhogs listening: You can see stars easier from Iowa than you can from Luna.

            You'll be wearing a p-suit, right? Its helmet has a lens and a visor designed to protect your eyes-that amounts to built-in smog. If the Sun is up, forget about stars; your lens has darkened to protect your eyes. If the Sun is not in your sky, then Earth is somewhere between half and full and earthshine is dazzling-eight times as much reflecting surface with five times the albedo makes Earth at least forty times as bright as moonlight is to Earth.

            Oh, the stars are there and sharp and bright; Luna is wonderful for astronomical telescopy. But to see stars with "bare" eyes (i.e., from inside your p-suit helmet), just find a meter or two of stove pipe- Wups! no stoves on Luna. So use a couple of meters of air duct. Look through it; it cuts out the dazzle; stars shine out "like a good deed in a naughty world."

            In front of me Earth was a bit past half phase. On my left the rising Sun was a day and a half high, twenty degrees or less; it made bright the desert floor, with long shadows emphasizing anything other than perfect flatness, thereby making driving easy for Aunt Lilybet. According to a map at the airiock in Lucky Dragon Pressure we had started out from north latitude thirty-two degrees and twenty-seven minutes by longitude six degrees fifty-six east, and were headed for fourteen degrees eleven minutes east by seventeen degrees thirty-two minutes north, a spot near Menelaus. That gave us a course generally south-about twenty-five degrees east of south, as close as I could read that map-and a destination some 550 kilometers away. No wonder our ETA read three o'clock tomorrow mom-ing!

            There was no road. Aunt Lilybet did not seem to have a tracker, or anything in the way of navigating instruments but an odometer and a speedometer. She seemed to be piloting the way river pilots of old were reputed to find their way, just by knowing the route. Perhaps so-but during the first hour I noticed something: There were range targets for the whole route. As we reached one, there would be another, out at the horizon.

            I had not noticed any such guides yesterday and I don't think there were any; I think Gretchen really did pilot Mark Twain style. In fact I think Aunt Lilybet did also-I noticed that she often did not come close to a range marker as she passed it. Those blazes had probably been set up for occasional drivers or for relief drivers for the Hear Me.

            I started trying to spot each one, making a game of it: If I missed one, it scored against me. Two misses in sequence counted as one "death" by "lost on the Moon"-something that happened too often in the early days... and still happens today. Luna is a big place, bigger than Africa, almost as big as Asia- and every square meter of it is deadly if you make just one little mistake.

            Definition of a Loonie: a human being, any color, size, or sex, who never makes a mistake where it counts.

            By our first rest stop I had "died" twice through missing ranging marks.

            At five minutes past fifteen Aunt Lilybet let her bus roll to a stop, then switched on a transparency that read: REST STOP- TWENTY MINUTES-and under it: Late Penalty-One Crown per Minute.

            We all got out. Bill grabbed Aunt Lilybet's arm and put his helmet against hers. She started to shake him off, then listened. I didn't try to check on him; twenty minutes isn't long for a rest stop when it involves coping with a p-suit. Of course this is even harder for females than for males, and more time consuming. We had a woman passenger with three children... and the right arm of her suit ended just below the elbow in a hook. How did she cope? I resolved to outwait her, so that the fine for being late would be assessed against me, rather than her.

            That "refresher" was dreadful. It was an airiock leading to a hole in the rock, attached to the home of a settler who combined tunnel farming with ice mining. There may have been some oxygen in the pressure gas that greeted us, but the stench made it impossible to tell. It reminded me of the jakes in a castle I was once quartered in during the Three-Weeks War- on the Rhine it was, near Remagen; it had a deep stone privy which was alleged never to have been cleaned in over nine hundred years.

            None of us was fined for being late, as our driver was even later. And so was Bill. Dr. Chan had resealed Tree-San with a roll-and-clamp arrangement to permit it to be watered more easily. Bill had solicited Aunt Lilybet's help. They had managed it together, but not quickly. I don't know whether Bill had time to pee or not. Auntie, of course, had time-the Hew Me couldn't roll until Auntie arrived.

            We made a meal stop about half past nineteen at a small pressure, four families, called Rob Roy. After the last stop this one seemed like the acme of civilization. The place was clean, the air smelled right, and the people were friendly and hospitable. There was no choice in the menu-chicken and dumplings, and moonberry pie-and the price was high. But what do you expect out in the middle of nowhere on the face of the Moon? There was a souvenir stand of handmade items, presided over by a little boy. I bought an embroidered change purse that I had no use for, because those people were good to us. The decoration on it read: "Rob Roy City, Capital of the Sea of Serenity." I gave it to my bride.

            Gwen helped the one-armed woman with the three children and learned that they were returning home to Kong, after having visited in Lucky Dragon the paternal grandparents of the youngsters. The mother's name was Ekaterina O'Toole; the kids were Patrick, Brigid, and Igor, aged eight, seven, and five. Our other three passengers turned out to be Lady Diana Kerr-Shapley and her husbands-wealthy and not inclined to fraternize with us plebs. Both her men carried side arms-inside their suits. What is the sense in that?

            The ground was not as even from there on, and it seemed to me that Auntie stuck a little closer to the marked track. But she still drove fast and with dash, bouncing us around on those big, low-pressure doughnuts in a fashion that made me wonder about Bill's queasy stomach. At least he was not having to hold Tree-San; Auntie had helped him lash it down in the cargo compartment aft. I wished him luck; getting sick in one's helmet is dreadful-happened to me once, a generation ago. Ugh!

            We made another rest stop just before midnight. Adequate. The Sun was now a few degrees higher and still rising. Auntie told us that we now had a hundred and fifteen klicks left to roll and should be in Kong about on time, with God's help.

            God didn't give Auntie the help she deserved. We had been rolling about an hour when out of nowhere (from behind a rock outcropping?) came another rolligon, smaller and faster, cutting diagonally across our path.

            I slapped Bill's arm, grabbed Gwen's shoulders, and down we went, below the driver's port and somewhat protected by the steel side of the bus. As I ducked for cover I saw a flash from the strange vehicle.

            Our bus rolled to a stop with the other vehicle right in front of us. Auntie stood up.

            They cut her down.

            Gwen got the man who beamed Auntie, resting her Miyako on the sill of the port-she got him in the lens of his helmet, the best way to shoot a man in a p-suit if you are using bullets rather than laser. I got the driver, aiming carefully as my cane shoots only five times-and no more ammo closer than Golden Rule (in my duffel, damn it). Other suited figures came pouring out the sides of the attacking craft. Gwen raised up a little and went on shooting.

            All this took place in the ghostly quiet of vacuum.

            I started to add my fire to Gwen's, when still another vehicle showed up. Not a rolligon but related to one-but not any contraption I ever saw before. It had only one tire, a supergiant doughnut at least eight meters high. Maybe ten. The hole in the doughnut was crowded with what may have been (or had to be?) its power plant. Extending out from this hub on each side was a cantilevered platform. On the upper side of each platform, both port and starboard, a gunner was strapped into a saddle. Below the gunner was the pilot, or driver, or engineer-one on each side and don't ask me how they coordinated.

            I won't swear to any details; I was busy. I had taken a bead on the gunner on the side toward me and was about to squeeze off one of my precious shots when I checked fire; his weapon was depressed, he was attacking our attackers. He was using an energy weapon-laser, particle beam, I don't know-as all I saw of each bolt was the parasitic flash... and the result.

            The big doughnut spun around a quarter turn; I saw the other pair, driver and gunner, on the other side-and this gunner was trained on us. His projector flashed.

            I got him in the face plate.

            Then I tried for his driver, got him (I think) at the neck joint. Not as good as punching a hole in his face plate but, unless he was equipped to make a difficult patch fast, he was going to be breathing the thin stuff in seconds.

            The doughnut spun all the way around. As it stopped I got the other gunner a nanosecond before he could get me. I tried to line up for a shot at the driver but could not get steady on target and had no ammo to waste. The doughnut started to roll, away from us, east-picked up speed, hit a boulder, bounced high, and disappeared over the horizon.

            I looked back down at the other rolligon. In addition to the two we had killed in the first exchange, still sprawled in the car, there were five bodies on the ground, two to starboard, three to port. None looked as if he would ever move again. I pressed my helmet to Gwen's. "Is that all of them?"

            She jabbed me hard in the side. I turned. A helmeted head was just appearing in the lefthand door. I lined up my cane and punched a starred hole in his face plate; he disappeared. I hopped on somebody's feet and looked out-no more on the left-turned, and here was another one climbing up through the righthand door. So I shot him-

            Correction: I tried to shoot him. No more ammo. I fell toward him, jabbing with my cane. He grabbed the end of it and that was his mistake, as I pulled on it, exposing twenty centimeters of Sheffield steel, which I sank into his suit and between his ribs. I pulled it out, shoved it into him again. That stiletto, a mere half-centimeter width of triangular blade, blood-grooved three sides, does not necessarily kill quickly but my second jab would hold his attention while he died, keep him too busy to kill me.

            He collapsed, half inside the door, and let go the scabbard part of my cane. I retrieved it, fitted it back on. Then I shoved him out, grabbed on to the seat nearest me, and pulled myself up onto my foot, took care of a minor annoyance, hopped back to my seat, and sat down. I was tired, although the whole fracas could not have lasted more than two or three minutes. It's the adrenaline-I always feel exhausted afterward.

            That was the end of it, and a good thing, too, as both Gwen and I were out of ammo, utterly, and I can't use that concealed blade trick more than once-it works only if you can lure your opponent into grabbing the ferrule of your walking stick. There had been nine in that rolligon and all of them were dead. Gwen and I got five of them between us; the gunners of the giant doughnut killed the other four. The body count was certain because there is no mistaking a bullet hole for a bum.

            I am not counting the two, or three, I shot of the super-doughnut's crew ... because they left no bodies to count; they were somewhere over the horizon.

            Our own casualties: four.

            First, our own gunner, riding shotgun in the turret above the driver. I crawled up and had a look-at one-sixth gee I can climb a vertical ladder almost as easily as you can. Our gunner was dead, probably that first flash marked his end. Had he been asleep on watch? Who knows and who cares now? He was dead.

            But our second casualty. Aunt Lilybet, was not dead, and that was Bill's doing. He had slapped two pressure patches onto her, fast, one on her left arm, one on the top of her helmet-had known enough to cut off her air as he did it, then had counted sixty seconds before he cracked the valve and let her suit reinflate. And thereby saved her life.

            It was the first evidence I had seen that Bill was even bright enough to pound sand. He had spotted where the kit with the pressure patches was kept, near the driver's seat, then had gone through the rest like a drill, no lost motions and paying no attention to the fighting going on around him.

            I suppose I should not have been surprised; I knew that Bill had worked in heavy construction-for a space habitat, that means p-suit work, with safety drills and training. But it's not enough to be trained; in a clutch it takes some smarts and a cool head to apply even the best of training.

            Bill showed us what he had done, not to boast of it, but because he realized that some of it might have to be done over:

            In sealing Auntie's suit in a hurry he had not been able to get at the wound in her arm to stop bleeding, and did not know whether or not it had been cauterized by the bum. If she was bleeding, that suit would have to be opened again, a pressure bandage applied to the wound, then the suit closed again- fast! In view of the location-an arm-the only way to do this would be to cut the suit fabric to make a larger hole, get at the arm and stop the bleeding, patch the bigger hole, and wait counted seconds for one endless minute before subjecting the patched suit to pressure.

            There is a very narrow limit on how long a patient can take vacuum. Auntie was old and wounded and had had it done to her once today. Could she take it twice?

            There was no question of opening her helmet. The bolt that had hit her there had carved a slice into the top of the helmet but not into her head-else we would not have been considering whether or not to open her sleeve.

            Gwen put her helmet against Auntie's, managed to rouse her and get her attention. Was she bleeding?

            Auntie didn't think so. Her arm was numb but didn't hurt much. Did they get it? Get what? Something in the cargo. Gwen assured her that the bandits didn't get anything; they were dead. That seemed to satisfy Auntie. She added, 'Taddie can drive," and seemed to slip off to sleep.

            Our third casualty was one of Lady Diana's husbands. Dead. But not by either set of bandits. In effect, he had shot himself in the foot.

            I think I mentioned that he was heeled-with his gun for God's sake inside his suit. When the trouble started, he went for his side arm, found he could not reach it-opened the front of his suit to get at it.

            It is possible to open your suit and close it again, in vacuum, and I think the legendary Houdini could have learned to do it. But this joker was still rumbling for his gun when he collapsed and drowned in vacuum. His co-husband was a half-point smarter. Instead of going for his own gun, he attempted to get at that of his partner after his partner keeled over. He did manage to get at it and to draw it but too late to help in the fight. He straightened up just as I was pulling myself to my foot, after I stabbed the last of the bandits.

            So I find this custard head waving a gun in my face.

            I did not intend to break his wrist; I simply meant to disarm him. I slapped the gun out of line and cracked his wrist with my cane. I caught the gun, shoved it into my p-suit belt, went forward, and collapsed in my seat. I did not know that I had hurt him, other than a bruise, maybe.

            But I feel no trace of remorse. If you don't want a broken wrist, don't wave a gun in my face. Not when I'm tired and excited.

            Then I pulled myself together and tried to help Gwen and Bill.

            I hate to tell about our fourth casualty: Igor O'Toole, the five-year-old.

            Since the tad was on a back seat with his mother, it is certain that he was not killed by anyone from the rolligon; the angle would have been impossible. Only the two gunners of the superdoughnut were up high enough to shoot in through the driver's port of Hear Me and hit someone clear at the back. Furthermore it had to be the second gunner; the first gunner had kept busy killing bushwhackers. Then the doughnut turned, I saw this gun leveled at us, saw its flash just about as I fired and killed him.

            I thought he had missed. If he was firing at me, he did miss. I'm not sure he was aiming carefully as who would aim at the least likely target?-a child, a baby really, clear at the back of the bus. But the flash I saw had to be the bolt that killed Igor.

            Had it not been for Igor's death I might have had mixed feelings about the crew of the giant doughnut-we certainly could not have won without their help. But that last shot convinces me that they were just killing off business competitors before getting to their main purpose, hijacking the Hear Me.

            My only regret is that I did not kill the fourth doughnut rider.

            But these were afterthoughts. What we saw at the time was simply a dead child. We straightened up from dealing with Auntie and looked around. Ekaterina was sitting quietly, holding the body of her son. I had to look twice to realize what had happened. But a p-suit does not hold a living child when the face plate is burned away. I hopped toward her; Gwen reached her first. I stopped behind Gwen; Lady Diana grabbed my sleeve, said something.

            I touched my helmet to hers. "What did you say?"

            "I told you to tell the driver to drive on! Can't you understand plain English?"

            I wish she had said it to Gwen; Gwen's replies are more imaginative than mine and much more lyrical. All I could manage, tired as I was, was: "Oh, shut up and sit down, you silly slitch." I did not wait for an answer.

            Lady Dee went forward, where Bill kept her from disturbing Auntie. I didn't see this, as just then, while I leaned forward to try to see what had happened to the consort who had (I was still to learn) killed himself with his p-suit, his co-husband attempted to recover that gun from me.

            In the course of the tussle I grabbed his (broken) wrist. I could not hear him scream or see his expression, but he did an amazing piece of extemporaneous Method acting that let me know the agony he was in.

            All I can say is: Don't wave guns in my face. It brings out the worst in me.

            I went back to Gwen and that poor mother, touched my helmet to Gwen's. "Anything we can do for her?"

            "No. Nothing till we get her in to pressure. Not much then."

            "How about the other two?" I suppose they were crying but when you can't hear it or see it, what can you do?

            "Richard, I think the best we can do is to leave this family alone. Keep an eye on them but let them be. Until we reach Kong."

            "Yes-Kong. Who is Taddie?"

            "What?"

            "Aunt Lilybet said, Taddie can drive.'"

            "Oh. I think she meant the turret gunner. Her nephew."

            So that's why I climbed up to check the turret. I had to go outside to get up there, which I did-cautiously. But we had been correct-all dead. And so was our turret gunner, Taddie. I climbed down, then back up into the passenger compartment, got my three together-told them we had no relief driver.

            I asked, "Bill, can you drive?"

            "No, I can't, Senator. This is the first time in my life I've ever been in one of these things."

            "I was afraid of that. Well, it's been some years since I've driven one but I know how, so- Oh, Jesus! Gwen, / can't."

            "Trouble, dear?"

            I sighed. "You steer this thing with your feet. I'm shy one foot-it's sitting over there by my seat. There is no way in the world I can put it on... and no way in the world I can drive with just one foot."

            She answered soothingly, "That's all right, dear. You handle the radio-we'll need some Maydays, I think. While I drive."

            "You can drive this behemoth?"