LITMIR.BIZ

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      Donley was eating a sandwich and looking out the port, so, naturally, he saw the ship first. “Well, whaddya know!” he shouted. “We got company!” He dashed for his suit. Dowden and Bening piled after him and all three started for the lock.

      Chapman was standing in front of it. “Check your suits,” he said softly. “Just be sure to check.”

      “Oh, what the hell, Chap!” Donley started angrily. Then he shut up and went over his suit. He got to his tank and turned white. Empty. It was only half a mile to the relief rocket, so somebody would probably have got to him in time, but.... He bit his lips and got a full tank.

      Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before he started back.

      They were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.

      Donley and the others were all over them.

      *

      How was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still teaching at the university? What was the international situation?

      Was the sky still blue, was the grass still green, did the leaves still turn color in the autumn, did people still love and cry and were there still people who didn’t know what an atom was and didn’t give a damn?

      Chapman had gone through it all before. But was Ginny still Ginny?

      Some of the men in the Third had their luggage with them. One of them—a husky, red-faced kid named Williams—was opening a box about a foot square and six inches deep. Chapman watched him curiously.

      “Well, I’ll be damned!” Klein said. “Hey, guys, look what we’ve got here!”

      Chapman and the others crowded around and suddenly Donley leaned over and took a deep breath. In the box, covering a thick layer of ordinary dirt, was a plot of grass. They looked at it, awed. Klein put out his hand and laid it on top of the grass.

      “I like the feel of it,” he said simply.

      Chapman cut off a single blade with his fingernail and put it between his lips. It had been years since he had seen grass and had the luxury of walking on it and lying on its cool thickness during those sultry summer nights when it was too hot to sleep indoors.

      Williams blushed. “I thought we could spare a little water for it and maybe use the ultraviolet lamp on it some of the time. Couldn’t help but bring it along; it seemed sort of like a symbol....” He looked embarrassed.

      Chapman sympathized. If he had had any sense, he’d have tried to smuggle something like that up to the Moon instead of his phonograph.

      “That’s valuable grass,” Dahl said sharply. “Do you realize that at current freight rates up here, it’s worth about ten dollars a blade?”

      Williams looked stricken and somebody said, “Oh, shut up, Dahl.”

      One of the men separated from the group and came over to Chapman. He held out his hand and said, “My name’s Eberlein. Captain of the relief ship. I understand you’re in charge here?”

      Chapman nodded and shook hands. They hadn’t had a captain on the First ship. Just a pilot and crew. Eberlein looked every inch a captain, too. Craggy face, gray hair, the firm chin of a man who was sure of himself.

      “You might say I’m in charge here,” Chapman said.

      “Well, look, Mr. Chapman, is there any place where we can talk together privately?”

      They walked over to one corner of the bunker. “This is about as private as we can get, captain,” Chapman said. “What’s on your mind?”

      *

      Eberlein found a packing crate and made himself comfortable. He looked at Chapman.

      “I’ve always wanted to meet the man who’s spent more time here than anybody else,” he began.

      “I’m sure you wanted to see me for more reasons than just curiosity.”

      Eberlein took out a pack of cigarets. “Mind if I smoke?”

      Chapman jerked a thumb toward Dahl. “Ask him. He’s in charge now.”

      The captain didn’t bother. He put the pack away. “You know we have big plans for the station,” he said.

      “I hadn’t heard of them.”

      “Oh, yes, big plans. They’re working on unmanned, open-side rockets now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this. Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people.” His eyes swept the room. “Have a little privacy for a change.”

      Chapman nodded. “They could use a little privacy up here.”

      The captain noticed the pronoun. “Well, that’s one of the reasons why I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and they’d like to see you stay. They feel if they’re going to enlarge it, add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical experience should be running things. They figure that you’re the only man who’s capable and who’s had the experience.”

      The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.

      “Is that all?”

      Eberlein was ill at ease. “Naturally you’d be paid well. I don’t imagine any man would like being here all the time. They’re prepared to double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have full charge. You’d be Director of the Luna Laboratories.”

      All this and a title too, Chapman thought.

      “That’s it?” Chapman asked.

      Eberlein frowned. “Well, the Commission said they’d be willing to consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or....”

      “The answer is no,” Chapman said. “I’m not interested in more money for staying because I’m not interested in staying. Money can’t buy it, captain. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that you’d have to stay up here to appreciate that.

      “Bob Dahl is staying for stopover. If there’s something important about the project or impending changes, perhaps you’d better tell him before you go.”

      He walked away.

      *

      Chapman held the letter in both hands, but the paper still shook. The others had left the bunker, the men of the Second taking those of the Third in hand to show them the machinery and apparatus that was outside, point out the deadly blisters underneath the pumice covering, and show them how to keep out of the Sun and how to watch their air supply.

      He was glad he was alone. He felt something trickle down his face and tasted salt on his lips.

      The mail had been distributed and he had saved his latest letter until the others had left so he could read it in privacy. It was a short letter, very short.

      It started: “Dear Joel: This isn’t going to be a nice letter, but I thought it best that you should know before you came home.”

      There was more to it, but he hadn’t even needed to read it to know what it said. It wasn’t original, of course. Women who change their minds weren’t exactly an innovation, either.

      He crumpled the paper and held a match to it and watched it burn on the steel

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