Читаем A Fall of Moondust полностью

Apart from its excessively small size, and complete absence of windows, the suite might have been in any cheap hotel on Earth. The simple chairs, couch, and table were manufactured from the very minimum of material, most of it Fiberglas, for quartz was common on the Moon. The bathroom was perfectly conventional (that was a relief, after those tricky freefall toilets), but the bed had a slightly disconcerting appearance. Some visitors from Earth found it difficult to sleep under a sixth of a gravity, and for their benefit an elastic sheet could be stretched across the bed and held in place by light springs. The whole arrangement had a distinct flavor of strait-jackets and padded cells.

Another cheerful little touch was the notice behind the door, which announced in English, Russian, and Mandarin that THIS HOTEL IS INDEPENDENTLY PRESSURISED. IN THE EVENT OF A DOME FAILURE, YOU WILL BE PERFECTLY SAFE. SHOULD THIS OCCUR, PLEASE REMAIN IN YOUR ROOM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. THANK YOU.

Spenser had read that notice several times. He still thought that the basic information could have been conveyed in a more confident, lighthearted manner. The wording lacked charm.

And that, he decided, was the whole trouble on the Moon. The struggle against the forces of Nature was so fierce that no energy was left for gracious living. This was most noticeable in the contrast between the superb efficiency of the technical services, and the easygoing, take-it-or-leave-it attitude one met in all the other walks of life. If you complained about the telephone, the plumbing, the air (especially the air!), it was fixed within minutes. But just try to get quick service in a restaurant or bar .. .

“I know you're very tired,” Spenser began, “but I'd like to ask a few questions. You don't mind being recorded, I hope?”

“No,” said Tom, who had long since passed the stage of caring one way or the other. He was slumped in a chair, mechanically sipping the drink Spenser had poured out, but obviously not tasting it.

“This is Maurice Spenser, Interplanet News, talking with Doctor Thomas Lawson. Now, Doctor, all we know at the moment is that you and Mister Lawrence, Chief Engineer, Earthside, have found Selene, and that the people inside are safe. Perhaps you'll tell us, without going into technical details, just how you—hell and damnation!”

He caught the slowly falling glass without spilling a drop, then eased the sleeping astronomer over to the couch. Well, he couldn't grumble; this was the only item that hadn't worked according to plan. And even this might be to his advantage; for no one else could find Lawson—still less, interview him-while he was sleeping it off in what the Hotel Roris, with a fine sense of humor, called its luxury suite.

In Clavius City , the Tourist Commissioner had finally managed to convince everyone that he had not been playing favorites. His relief at hearing of Selene's discovery had quickly abated when Reuter's, Time-Space, Triplanetary Publications, and Lunar News had phoned him in rapid succession to ask just how Interplanet had managed to break the story first. It had been on the wires, in fact, even before it had reached Administration headquarters, thanks to Spenser's thoughtful monitoring of the dust-ski radios.

Now that it was obvious what had happened, the suspicions of all the other news services had been replaced by frank admiration for Spenser's luck and enterprise. It would be a little while yet before they realized that he had an even bigger trick up his capacious sleeve.

The Communications Center at Clavius had seen many dramatic moments, but this was one of the most unforgettable. It was, thought Commissioner Davis, almost like listening to voices from beyond the grave. A few hours ago, all these men and women were presumed dead—yet here they were, fit and cheerful, lining up at that buried microphone to relay messages of reassurance to their friends and relatives. Thanks to the probe which Lawrence had left as marker and antenna, that fifteen-meter blanket of dust could no longer cut the cruiser off from the rest of mankind.

The impatient reporters had to wait until there was a break in Selene's transmission before they could get their interviews. Miss Wilkins was now speaking, dictating messages that were being handed to her by the passengers. The cruiser must have been full of people scribbling telegraphese on the backs of torn-up guidebooks, trying to condense the maximum amount of information into the minimum number of words. None of this material, of course, could be quoted or reproduced; it was all private, and the Postmasters General of three planets would descend in their combined wrath upon any reporter foolish enough to use it. Strictly speaking, they should not even be listening in on this circuit, as the Communications Officer had several times pointed out with increasing degrees of indignation.