Читаем A Fall of Moondust полностью

“We seem to be in one piece,” he began in an easy, conversational style. “We've had a slight accident, as you'll gather, but things could be worse.” (How? a part of his mind asked him. Well, the hull could have been fractured.. .. So you want to prolong the agony? He shut off the interior monologue by an effort of will.) “We've been caught in a landslip-a moonquake, if you like. There's certainly no need to be alarmed; even if we can't get out under our own power, Port Roris will soon have someone here. Meanwhile, I know that Miss Wilkins was just going to serve refreshments, so I suggest you all relax while I—ah—do whatever proves necessary.”

That seemed to have gone over quite well. With a silent sigh of relief, he turned back to the controls. As he did so, he noticed one of the passengers light a cigarette.

It was an automatic reaction, and one that he felt very much like sharing. He said nothing; that would have destroyed the atmosphere his little speech had created. But he caught the man's eye just long enough for the message to go home; the cigarette had been stubbed out before he resumed his seat.

As he switched on the radio, Pat heard the babble of conversation start up behind him. When a group of people were talking together, you could gather their mood even if you could not hear the individual words. He could detect annoyance, excitement, even amusement—but, as yet, very little fear. Probably those who were speaking did not realize the full danger of the situation; the ones who did were silent.

And so was the ether. He searched the wave bands from end to end, and found only a faint crackle from the electrified dust that had buried them. It was just as he had expected. This deadly stuff, with its high metallic content, was an almost perfect shield. It would pass neither radio waves nor sound; when he tried to transmit, he would be like a man shouting from the bottom of a well that was packed with feathers.

He switched the beacon to the high-powered emergency setting, so that it automatically broadcast a distress signal on the MOONCRASH band. If anything got through, this would; there was no point in trying to call Port Roris himself, and his fruitless efforts would merely upset the passengers. He left the receiver operating on Selene's assigned frequency, in case of any reply, but he knew that it was useless. No one could hear them; no one could speak to them. As far as they were concerned, the rest of the human race might not exist.

He did not brood over this setback for very long. He had expected it, and there was too much else to do. With the utmost care, he checked all the instruments and gauges. Everything appeared to be perfectly normal, except that the temperature was just a shade high. That also was to be expected, now that the dust blanket was shielding them from the cold of space.

His greatest worry was the thickness of that blanket, and the pressure it was exerting on the boat. There must be thousands of tons of the stuff above Selene—and her hull had been designed to withstand pressure from within, not from without. If she went too deep, she might be cracked like an eggshell.

How deep the cruiser was, he had no idea. When he had caught his last glimpse of the stars, she was about ten meters below the surface, and she might have been carried down much farther by the suction of the dust. It would be advisable-even though it would increase their oxygen consumption—to put up the internal pressure and thus take some of the strain off the hull.

Very slowly, so that there would be no telltale popping of ears to alarm anyone, he boosted the cabin pressure by twenty per cent. When he had finished, he felt a little happier. He was not the only one, for as soon as the pressure gauge had stabilized at its new level, a quiet voice said over his shoulder: “I think that was a very good idea.”

He twisted around to see what busybody was spying on him, but his angry protest died unborn. On his first quick inspection, Pat had recognized none of the passengers; now, however, he could tell that there was something vaguely familiar about the stocky, gray-haired man who had come forward to the driver's position.

“I don't want to intrude, Captain—you're the skipper here. But I thought I'd better introduce myself in case I can help. I'm Commodore Hansteen.”

Pat stared, slack-jawed, at the man who had led the first expedition to Pluto, who had probably landed on more virgin planets and moons than any explorer in history. All he could say to express his astonishment was “You weren't down on the passenger list!”

The Commodore smiled.

“My alias is Hanson. Since I retired, I've been trying to do a little sight-seeing without quite so much responsibility. And now that I've shaved off my beard, no one ever recognizes me.”