Lunar Station

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Comet January 41. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Bill Bonwitt, the young chief engineer at the mercury mines that bored into the surface of Earth's moon at the crater Tycho, knew something was wrong. His hob-nailed boots beat a swift tattoo on the metal steps as he quick-footed down to the radio room.

"Crane!" he yelled to the operator. "Have you felt it?"

His friend grinned up from the ethertype machine. There came a quivering of the floor, then a prolonged but diminishing vibration. "I felt it, sure. That was the transport, blasting away from Tycho, is all. What's wrong with you--jitters?"

"Nuts, Crane; it wasn't the ship. We're moving; the moon's on a rampage. Earth's gone cockeyed overhead. I've seen it, felt it."

"Wha-a-at!" Crane's grin froze. He slanted his sorrel-topped head. "Damned if I don't think you've got something there," he conceded after a moment. "I feel it, too; sort of a swing and sway."

The operator attacked his keyboard. Tape chattered through the transmitter wildly. "Asking New York to check with Mount Palomar," he explained soberly. Val Crane's freckles emerged from their camouflage as his cheeks paled. The moon had gone haywire.

"Come up above," urged Bonwitt. "In the dome you can see--"

"Right," Crane approved, switching off his transmitter as the tape snipped out, his message completed.

The beryllium steps resounded again as two pairs of heavy Lunar boots clattered upward. Black velvet of the heavens loomed above the blacker braces of the crystal dome breaking the scene into an intricate network. Earth, a huge ball overhead, was swinging across space, when it should have been stationary.

"Cripes!" swore Crane. "What the--"

Luna quaked mightily and Earth slowly swung back to normal with a snap that jarred their insides almost loose.

Stunned, breathless, they ducked as the Atomic I blazed away from the base of Tycho's rim, her twin jets spouting trails of blazing magnificence in a double arcing trail earthward. A dazzling sight under ordinary circumstances, inconsequential now.

A furious chattering of the ethertype below sent them to the room of the radio with more echoing thumpings.

Crane grabbed the tape, reading aloud as it fluttered through his trembling fingers. "Mount Palomar reports Luna shifted three and one half degrees eastward from normal by unaccountable rotation on her axis, returning suddenly to original position. More later from here. Keep us advised of any further developments there. Atomic, N.Y."

"Three and a half degrees!" gasped Bonwitt. "Sixty-six surface miles in as many seconds."

Sounds of distress wafted up from still further down in the workings. A metallic crash. Shouts. Bonwitt started down toward the machine shop as Crane hunched once more over his ticker.

A new drill press, not yet bolted down, had toppled and pinned one of the mechanics to the floor. The man was unconscious; his fellow workers were heaving sweatily to free him. Peterson, the new super of the mines, looked on, bellowing, purpled. He leered at Bill Bonwitt.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded. "Where were you?"

Bonwitt flared up; he didn't like Peterson. "I'm off duty," he snapped. "Besides, nothing could be done. All that happened is the moon shifted a little on its axis and came back."

"I'll say it shifted! A mile of Tycho's rim caved in just past our workings. And you in the dome!" A sneer twisted the super's thin lips. He was looking for trouble.

Bonwitt bristled anew but curbed his wrath, shrugging it all off.

"No damage, was there?" he inquired mildly. "No air leaks?" He moved nonchalantly to where they were helping the victim of the accident.

Peterson followed, watching as they pulled the man out and laid him on a bench. Bonwitt examined the injured man swiftly.

"No broken bones," he proclaimed tersely. "Take him to Doc Tonge. He'll fix him up in a jif."

The fellow, tawny of skin, a runt of unguessable age and origin, gasped and opened his eyes. They fixed, glass-hard, on Peterson.

"Ficora!" he shrieked. "Jombalo!" He slipped again into coma.

Bonwitt wheeled but Peterson had gone. Queer! Andy Pauchek was the victim's name on the payroll. A mystery to the rest in the place. No friends; apparently no antecedents. But it was sure he had known the new super before and held something against him. Hated him.

Bonwitt climbed the stair to consult with Crane.