tunnel was an airlock, and what Mario called a “dustlock,” a small room equipped with brushes, vacuum hoses, and other devices to clean spacesuits and people of electrostatically clinging Moon dust. As Mario and Siobhan hadn’t been exposed to the surface, they were able to cycle through this quickly.
The airlock’s inner door was marked with a large plaque:
WELCOME TO CLAVIUS BASE
U.S. ASTRONAUTICAL ENGINEERING CORPS
She read on down a list of contributing organizations, from NASA and the U.S. Air and Space Force to Boeing and various other private contractors. There was also a rather grudging acknowledgment, she thought, of the Eurasian, Japanese, Pan-Arabian, Pan-African, and other space organizations that had put up more than half the money for this American-led project.
She touched a little roundel that was the logo of the British National Space Agency. In recent years the British had discovered a genius for robotics and miniaturization, and the machine-dominated period of renewed lunar and Martian exploration earlier in the century had been the glory days of the BNSA and its engineers. But that period had been brief, and was already over.
Mario caught her eye and grinned. “That’s the Americans for you. Never give anybody else credit.”
“But they were here first,” she pointed out.
“Oh, yes, there is that.”
The inner door slid open to reveal a short, stocky man waiting for her. “Professor McGorran? Welcome to the Moon.” She recognized him immediately. This was Colonel Burton Tooke, USASF, commander of Clavius Base. Aged about fifty, with a severe military crew cut, he was a good head shorter than she was, and he flashed a disarming gap-toothed grin. “Call me Bud,” he said.
Siobhan said goodbye to Mario, who was returning to his shuttle, “where the beds are softer than anything in Clavius,” he claimed.
Bud Tooke led Siobhan up a flight of stairs, easily negotiated in one-sixth gravity, to the interior of a dome. They walked along a narrow roofless corridor. She could see the dome’s smooth plastic some meters above her head, but the space beneath was cluttered with walkways and partitions. Everything was quiet, the lights subdued; nobody was moving, save Bud and Siobhan.
She said softly, “It seems rather appropriate to arrive somewhere as mysterious as the Moon in silence and twilight.”
He nodded. “Sure. You’ll soon be over the Moon-lag, I hope. It’s actually two A.M. here. The middle of our night.”
“Moon time?”
“Houston time.”
She learned this was a tradition dating back to the days of the earliest astronauts, who had timed their epic journeys by the clocks of their homes in Texas; it was a pleasing tribute to those pioneers.
They reached a row of closed doors. Above, a small neon sign glowed pink: it read CONTACT LIGHT . Bud opened a door at random to reveal a small room, and Siobhan looked inside. There was a bed that could be folded out to become double, a table, chair, and basic comms equipment, and even a small unit containing a shower and lavatory.
“Not quite a hotel. And there’s no room service to speak of.” Bud said this cautiously. Perhaps some VIP visitors threw tantrums at this point, demanding the five-star luxury they were used to.
Siobhan said firmly, “I’ll be fine. Umm—
contact light
?”
“The first words spoken on the Moon, by Buzz Aldrin, at the moment when
Apollo 11
’s lunar module first touched the surface. Seems appropriate for our visitor quarters.” He shoved her luggage into the room, where her smart suitcase, sensing it had completed its own journey, opened itself up. Bud said, “Siobhan, I’ve set up the briefing you asked for at ten A.M. local. The participants have all been brought here—notably Mangles and Martynov from the South Pole.”
“Thank you.”
“Until then your time is your own. Take a break if you like. But it’s about time I took an inspection tour of this dump. I’d welcome your
The airlock’s inner door was marked with a large plaque:
WELCOME TO CLAVIUS BASE
U.S. ASTRONAUTICAL ENGINEERING CORPS
She read on down a list of contributing organizations, from NASA and the U.S. Air and Space Force to Boeing and various other private contractors. There was also a rather grudging acknowledgment, she thought, of the Eurasian, Japanese, Pan-Arabian, Pan-African, and other space organizations that had put up more than half the money for this American-led project.
She touched a little roundel that was the logo of the British National Space Agency. In recent years the British had discovered a genius for robotics and miniaturization, and the machine-dominated period of renewed lunar and Martian exploration earlier in the century had been the glory days of the BNSA and its engineers. But that period had been brief, and was already over.
Mario caught her eye and grinned. “That’s the Americans for you. Never give anybody else credit.”
“But they were here first,” she pointed out.
“Oh, yes, there is that.”
The inner door slid open to reveal a short, stocky man waiting for her. “Professor McGorran? Welcome to the Moon.” She recognized him immediately. This was Colonel Burton Tooke, USASF, commander of Clavius Base. Aged about fifty, with a severe military crew cut, he was a good head shorter than she was, and he flashed a disarming gap-toothed grin. “Call me Bud,” he said.
Siobhan said goodbye to Mario, who was returning to his shuttle, “where the beds are softer than anything in Clavius,” he claimed.
Bud Tooke led Siobhan up a flight of stairs, easily negotiated in one-sixth gravity, to the interior of a dome. They walked along a narrow roofless corridor. She could see the dome’s smooth plastic some meters above her head, but the space beneath was cluttered with walkways and partitions. Everything was quiet, the lights subdued; nobody was moving, save Bud and Siobhan.
She said softly, “It seems rather appropriate to arrive somewhere as mysterious as the Moon in silence and twilight.”
He nodded. “Sure. You’ll soon be over the Moon-lag, I hope. It’s actually two A.M. here. The middle of our night.”
“Moon time?”
“Houston time.”
She learned this was a tradition dating back to the days of the earliest astronauts, who had timed their epic journeys by the clocks of their homes in Texas; it was a pleasing tribute to those pioneers.
They reached a row of closed doors. Above, a small neon sign glowed pink: it read CONTACT LIGHT . Bud opened a door at random to reveal a small room, and Siobhan looked inside. There was a bed that could be folded out to become double, a table, chair, and basic comms equipment, and even a small unit containing a shower and lavatory.
“Not quite a hotel. And there’s no room service to speak of.” Bud said this cautiously. Perhaps some VIP visitors threw tantrums at this point, demanding the five-star luxury they were used to.
Siobhan said firmly, “I’ll be fine. Umm—
contact light
?”
“The first words spoken on the Moon, by Buzz Aldrin, at the moment when
Apollo 11
’s lunar module first touched the surface. Seems appropriate for our visitor quarters.” He shoved her luggage into the room, where her smart suitcase, sensing it had completed its own journey, opened itself up. Bud said, “Siobhan, I’ve set up the briefing you asked for at ten A.M. local. The participants have all been brought here—notably Mangles and Martynov from the South Pole.”
“Thank you.”
“Until then your time is your own. Take a break if you like. But it’s about time I took an inspection tour of this dump. I’d welcome your
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