stop. The foggy dome was larger than it appeared from a distance, looming over them now.
Silence. Finally, Rahman said, “I don’t know whether it’s mist or just UV discoloration on the inner panels. Probably the latter.”
Inbar, voice very soft: “If it’s mist, then there’s air.”
“Probably air in any case. It hasn’t been all that long.”
Zeq said, “I feel like I’m trespassing in a graveyard.”
Yes. Very much like that. A little bit like the feeling you got, visiting those old gutted tombs hewn from the living rock of the Valley of the Kings. Alireza bit down on that cold feeling, putting it away. No use fretting about superstitious nonsense. No one died here. It’s like an abandoned home. Of course, abandoned homes often had that haunted feeling as well. As if the people who’d gone away, unexpectedly perhaps, might... Silly. He said, “All right, let’s go in and see what they’ve left us.” He unclipped his harness and stood, rolling to one side, wobbling unsteadily for a moment in strange, too light gravity, struggling with the unfamiliar CG of the suit, which was so much more comfortable in zero gee.
Inbar said, “Check and see if they left the key under the mat. Americans were always leaving keys under mats.”
Scratchy voice, staticky in their earphones. Mahal: “Mission control says the, um, Americans have just launched something.”
“Launched what?”
“A missile maybe. Control says it accelerated too hard to be a manned ship. It’ll get there in about three hours, they said.”
Someone, Zeq maybe, muttered Bismallah . Nothing else to say, when you heard something like that.
“What about the Chinese?”
“They’ll be down in fifteen minutes or so. You should see them as soon as they start retro burn, maybe ten degrees above your southern horizon.”
A bright star, falling, falling, growing brighter as it fell...
“All right. Keep us posted. We’re going in now, if we can.”
“Careful.”
“Right.”
The airlock door, it turned out, was swung open on its hinges, a gaping black hole in the foundation wall of the dome. Lightless inside.
“Something here, stuck to the wall just inside the hatch...” A piece of paper, which cracked into two pieces when Rahman plucked it from its place. She held it up to the ambient sunlight, staring at thin old writing, English script. Felt a useless impulse to blow the dust off it.
“What does it say?” asked Zeq.
Long silence. Feeling of unreality. “It says, ‘Key under mat. It’s your ass, buddy.’“
Another long silence, the Alireza said, “Isn’t Buddy a popular American name?”
“Sometimes. It also means friend .”
Alireza said, “Was it taped to a particular switch?”
“Doesn’t matter. There’s unlikely to be power.” Rahman flipped the switch and the airlock lights came on. Another long moment, the four of them looking at each other, pale, strained faces looking out through thick faceplates, then she said, “Their nuclear power system should’ve shut down long ago, untended like this.”
Zeq said, “And yet.”
“Right. Pull the outer door shut.” A slow look around, at dials and gauges, panels of switches and typical mid-21st century readouts. “This is familiar equipment.”
Inside the dome, there was air: nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide, trace gases in the correct ratios, at just a few dozen millibars below standard sea level pressure.
Inbar said, “So. Do we unsuit? It’d make things easier.”
Alireza stood looking out through the dome, in the direction of the sun. It was a lot easier to see out than in, what they’d thought mist or discoloration apparently some optical coating. The Earth and Lunar landscape were bright enough outside, but you could look straight at the sun, too. Maybe that smudge was a sunspot? “Not yet. Let’s look around.” Up in the sky, maybe ten degrees above the southern horizon, a bright spark suddenly appeared. Company. Somewhere else up there,
Silence. Finally, Rahman said, “I don’t know whether it’s mist or just UV discoloration on the inner panels. Probably the latter.”
Inbar, voice very soft: “If it’s mist, then there’s air.”
“Probably air in any case. It hasn’t been all that long.”
Zeq said, “I feel like I’m trespassing in a graveyard.”
Yes. Very much like that. A little bit like the feeling you got, visiting those old gutted tombs hewn from the living rock of the Valley of the Kings. Alireza bit down on that cold feeling, putting it away. No use fretting about superstitious nonsense. No one died here. It’s like an abandoned home. Of course, abandoned homes often had that haunted feeling as well. As if the people who’d gone away, unexpectedly perhaps, might... Silly. He said, “All right, let’s go in and see what they’ve left us.” He unclipped his harness and stood, rolling to one side, wobbling unsteadily for a moment in strange, too light gravity, struggling with the unfamiliar CG of the suit, which was so much more comfortable in zero gee.
Inbar said, “Check and see if they left the key under the mat. Americans were always leaving keys under mats.”
Scratchy voice, staticky in their earphones. Mahal: “Mission control says the, um, Americans have just launched something.”
“Launched what?”
“A missile maybe. Control says it accelerated too hard to be a manned ship. It’ll get there in about three hours, they said.”
Someone, Zeq maybe, muttered Bismallah . Nothing else to say, when you heard something like that.
“What about the Chinese?”
“They’ll be down in fifteen minutes or so. You should see them as soon as they start retro burn, maybe ten degrees above your southern horizon.”
A bright star, falling, falling, growing brighter as it fell...
“All right. Keep us posted. We’re going in now, if we can.”
“Careful.”
“Right.”
The airlock door, it turned out, was swung open on its hinges, a gaping black hole in the foundation wall of the dome. Lightless inside.
“Something here, stuck to the wall just inside the hatch...” A piece of paper, which cracked into two pieces when Rahman plucked it from its place. She held it up to the ambient sunlight, staring at thin old writing, English script. Felt a useless impulse to blow the dust off it.
“What does it say?” asked Zeq.
Long silence. Feeling of unreality. “It says, ‘Key under mat. It’s your ass, buddy.’“
Another long silence, the Alireza said, “Isn’t Buddy a popular American name?”
“Sometimes. It also means friend .”
Alireza said, “Was it taped to a particular switch?”
“Doesn’t matter. There’s unlikely to be power.” Rahman flipped the switch and the airlock lights came on. Another long moment, the four of them looking at each other, pale, strained faces looking out through thick faceplates, then she said, “Their nuclear power system should’ve shut down long ago, untended like this.”
Zeq said, “And yet.”
“Right. Pull the outer door shut.” A slow look around, at dials and gauges, panels of switches and typical mid-21st century readouts. “This is familiar equipment.”
Inside the dome, there was air: nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide, trace gases in the correct ratios, at just a few dozen millibars below standard sea level pressure.
Inbar said, “So. Do we unsuit? It’d make things easier.”
Alireza stood looking out through the dome, in the direction of the sun. It was a lot easier to see out than in, what they’d thought mist or discoloration apparently some optical coating. The Earth and Lunar landscape were bright enough outside, but you could look straight at the sun, too. Maybe that smudge was a sunspot? “Not yet. Let’s look around.” Up in the sky, maybe ten degrees above the southern horizon, a bright spark suddenly appeared. Company. Somewhere else up there,
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