almost everything that was really important in the shaping of man’s lives and
deaths.
Commodore Hansteen was well aware of that, as he planned the programme for the dwindling
hours that lay ahead. Some men are born to be leaders, and he was one of them. The
emptiness of his retirement had been suddenly filled; for the first time since he
had left the bridge of his flagship
Centaurus
, he felt whole again.
As long as his little crew was busy, he need not worry about morale. It did not matter
what they were doing, provided they thought it interesting or important. That poker
game, for instance, took care of the Space Administration accountant, the retired
civil engineer, and the two executives on vacation from New York. One could tell at
a glance that they were all poker-fanatics; the problem would be to stop them playing,
not to keep them occupied.
Most of the other passengers had split up into little discussion groups, talking quite
cheerfully among themselves. The Entertainments Committee was still in session, with
Professor Jayawardene making occasional notes while Mrs. Schuster reminisced about
her days in burlesque, despite the attempts of her husband to shut her up. The only
person who seemed a little apart from it all was Miss Morley, who was writing slowly
and carefully, using a very minute hand, in what was left of her notebook. Presumably,
like a good journalist she was keeping a diary of their adventure; Commodore Hansteen
was afraid that it would be briefer than she suspected, and that not even those few
pages would be filled. And if they were, he doubted that anyone would ever read them.
He glanced at his watch, and was surprised to see how late it was. By now, he should
have been on the other side of the Moon, back in Clavius City. He had a lunch engagement
at the Lunar Hilton, and after that a trip to—but there was no point in thinking about
a future that could never exist. The brief present was all that would ever concern
him now.
It would be as well to get some sleep, before the temperature became unbearable.
Selene
had never been designed as a dormitory—or a tomb, for that matter—but it would have
to be turned into one now. This involved some research and planning, and a certain
amount of damage to Tourist Commission property. It took his twenty minutes to ascertain
all the facts; then, after a brief conference with Captain Harris, he called for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve all had a busy day, and I think most of us
will be glad to get some sleep. This presents a few problems, but I’ve been doing
some experimenting and have discovered that with a little encouragement the centre
armrests between the seats come out. They’re not supposed to, but I doubt if the Commission
will sue us. That means that ten of us can stretch out across the seats; the rest
will have to use the floor.
“Another point. As you will have noticed, it’s become rather warm, and will continue
to do so for some time. Therefore I advise you to take off all unnecessary clothing;
comfort is much more important than modesty.” (“And survival,” he added silently,
“is much more important than comfort”—but it would be some hours yet before it came
to that.)
“We’ll turn off the main cabin lights, and as we don’t want to be in complete darkness
we’ll leave on the emergency lighting at low power. One of us will remain on watch
at all times in the skipper’s seat; Mr. Harris is working out a roster of two-hour
shifts. Any questions or comments?”
There were none, and the Commodore breathed a sigh of relief. He was afraid that someone
would be inquisitive about the rising temperature, and was not quite sure how he would
have answered. His many accomplishments did not include the gift of lying, and he
was anxious that the passengers should have as untroubled a sleep as was possible
in the circumstances.
deaths.
Commodore Hansteen was well aware of that, as he planned the programme for the dwindling
hours that lay ahead. Some men are born to be leaders, and he was one of them. The
emptiness of his retirement had been suddenly filled; for the first time since he
had left the bridge of his flagship
Centaurus
, he felt whole again.
As long as his little crew was busy, he need not worry about morale. It did not matter
what they were doing, provided they thought it interesting or important. That poker
game, for instance, took care of the Space Administration accountant, the retired
civil engineer, and the two executives on vacation from New York. One could tell at
a glance that they were all poker-fanatics; the problem would be to stop them playing,
not to keep them occupied.
Most of the other passengers had split up into little discussion groups, talking quite
cheerfully among themselves. The Entertainments Committee was still in session, with
Professor Jayawardene making occasional notes while Mrs. Schuster reminisced about
her days in burlesque, despite the attempts of her husband to shut her up. The only
person who seemed a little apart from it all was Miss Morley, who was writing slowly
and carefully, using a very minute hand, in what was left of her notebook. Presumably,
like a good journalist she was keeping a diary of their adventure; Commodore Hansteen
was afraid that it would be briefer than she suspected, and that not even those few
pages would be filled. And if they were, he doubted that anyone would ever read them.
He glanced at his watch, and was surprised to see how late it was. By now, he should
have been on the other side of the Moon, back in Clavius City. He had a lunch engagement
at the Lunar Hilton, and after that a trip to—but there was no point in thinking about
a future that could never exist. The brief present was all that would ever concern
him now.
It would be as well to get some sleep, before the temperature became unbearable.
Selene
had never been designed as a dormitory—or a tomb, for that matter—but it would have
to be turned into one now. This involved some research and planning, and a certain
amount of damage to Tourist Commission property. It took his twenty minutes to ascertain
all the facts; then, after a brief conference with Captain Harris, he called for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve all had a busy day, and I think most of us
will be glad to get some sleep. This presents a few problems, but I’ve been doing
some experimenting and have discovered that with a little encouragement the centre
armrests between the seats come out. They’re not supposed to, but I doubt if the Commission
will sue us. That means that ten of us can stretch out across the seats; the rest
will have to use the floor.
“Another point. As you will have noticed, it’s become rather warm, and will continue
to do so for some time. Therefore I advise you to take off all unnecessary clothing;
comfort is much more important than modesty.” (“And survival,” he added silently,
“is much more important than comfort”—but it would be some hours yet before it came
to that.)
“We’ll turn off the main cabin lights, and as we don’t want to be in complete darkness
we’ll leave on the emergency lighting at low power. One of us will remain on watch
at all times in the skipper’s seat; Mr. Harris is working out a roster of two-hour
shifts. Any questions or comments?”
There were none, and the Commodore breathed a sigh of relief. He was afraid that someone
would be inquisitive about the rising temperature, and was not quite sure how he would
have answered. His many accomplishments did not include the gift of lying, and he
was anxious that the passengers should have as untroubled a sleep as was possible
in the circumstances.
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