City on the Moon

Weight struck, but tolerable weight. It was a ten-two rocket; two gravities for ten seconds. They were pointed back toward the moon. Their velocity away from it was lessened, but by no means canceled.

When the pressure ended, Mike said calmly, "A six-three this time. Five—four—three—"

There was an impact like a pile driver, slamming Kenmore back into his seat. But Mike's hand was forced down by the impact, too. The manual release operated. The super-powerful Earthship's rocket tore away from the Shuttle with an acceleration past computing. It would undoubtedly strike somewhere on the silent, dreary emptiness. which was the moon. The ship was left weightless, its velocity unaffected. The rocket had been freed in time to prevent destruction, but the shock had still been great.

Mike asked savagely, "Anybody living?"

Arlene's voice in the helmet phones was unsteady. "I am."

"And Joe's grinding his teeth. I hear him," growled Scandia. "We're losing air. That jolt started something!" He ripped open his faceplate and snapped into the microphone of the ship's communicator, "You lugs down there in the spotter stations! If you're trying to figure out this radar pip heading out to space, it's us. Me, Mike Scandia, with Joe Kenmore and Arlene Gray aboard the Shuttle. We're blasting to come back in. We might make it. Track us and do what you can!" Then he snapped viciously, "Somebody switched markings on the rockets at the city! Sabotage!"

He snapped his faceplate shut, and Kenmore heard him panting. Air was going fast; the needle on the pressure gauge said six pounds. Five . . . That last bump had strained the plates of the Shuttle. Mike had used the last possible second of air to pant a message directed at anybody in one of the spotter stations whose radars watched for freight-rockets coming unmanned up from Earth. There were four of those stations.

The air-pressure needle hit zero; all air was gone, now. There was no way to talk from a sealed-up suit into a space-phone, or to hear what the space-phone received. There was no way to know if Mike's message had been received. On the whole, it was not likely. Spotter-station men did not usually man their equipment unless a cargo drone was due. There was nothing for them to look for. Mike said venomously through the talkie, when his breathing was easy again, "I shoulda called them before. Not much chance, but I shouldda done it! Hang on to your tonsils! I'm firing another six-three. Five—four-three—two—one—"

Another violent blow. It was like a monstrous fist; it was enough to make anybody black out. But this rocket, too, released itself by the weight of Mike's small fist in a loop to the manual handle the instant it proved its power.

"This don't look good!" said Mike icily. "Ready, Joe? I'm trying what's marked for a four-three. Five—four—" It was a four-three. The rocket pushed valiantly against the momentum that took the Shuttle toward the stars. It burned out. Mike gave warning and fired another rocket; that also was what it should be.

They ceased floating out, three firings later. Another flaming pusher and another. . . . The Shuttle-ship moved moonward, but it was airless, now. Kenmore said into his helmet phone, "Mike, we're headed back in. I think we'd better take it floating. No more shooting until we're about to touch. The ship's badly strained. It might come apart. But if we can get down in one piece, we can go outside and check the markings and make sure of what's left. We might even be able to lift off again, and land somewhere near the City. But don't risk any more firings until we're close to ground!"

Mike said grudgingly, "That makes sense. I'll spend the time figuring out what to do to the guy who switched those marks!"

The little ship floated downward. They had an indefinite velocity toward the moon, now, which increased as the feeble gravity pulled at them. It had seemed that the gravity was trivial because the rate-of-fall was slow. The ship would hit with only one-sixth the speed, and therefore one-sixth violence, of the same object falling the same distance to Earth. From a height of six yards it would hit no harder than from a fall of one yard on the mother planet; but their height was several times six miles.

There was little for them to do, of course. They could move about, weightless, in the airless cabin. The ship's gyros still ran, and still kept its nose pointed in the direction in which the last rocket had urged it. Kenmore pulled himself to the forward vision port and sighted.

"We'll land somewhere out on a sea, Mike."

Scandia did not answer. Kenmore heard his small teeth grinding in a full-sized rage. Kenmore himself couldn't afford to indulge his feelings, yet. Right now he had to think coolly. Their chances were so few that he couldn't afford to throw away any of them. But he couldn't think of a really good move, at that.

Presently he checked the ship's reserve tanks. He had Arlene top off her suit, then fixed a hose, and had the three of them breathing the ship's reserve air. He watched out the forward port.

"We got a break," he said presently. "I think I'm getting good bearings on a spotter station I know about. We may ground as close as sixty or seventy miles from it!"

"With," growled Mike, "two hours of air in our tanks!"