The farside of the moon drew near; the Earthship floated around it, and Earth came into view beyond a jagged rim of crater walls. And nearer there were the mountain ranges, named for the national heroes of various jealous countries, and the seas assigned for naming to the United Nations commission for lunar nomenclature. Which seemed rather unimportant, just now.
Then came the boundary of farside; Earth floated free in the sky and its continents had changed places again. It was distinctly gibbous now, and the lunar day was nearer to Civilian City, but would be all of a hundred hours yet in reaching it. Moreau and the chief kept feverishly busy with their observing and computing, and informed Kenmore very elaborately of their results. He humored them to the extent of a very minor change in the course and velocity of the rocket-ship, which should bring it into the very optimum landing course for Civilian City.
Later they left the dawn behind, and plunged into the moon's vast cold shadow. Kenmore opened the port-shutters, and they strained their eyes to make out mountain. formations in the earthlight that shone upon them. Presently, they succeeded; Moreau and the chief brightly assured Kenmore that the ship was perfectly on course. Presently, again, the Mare Imbrium came up over the curved horizon and the bay in which the City lay, next to the spiky Apennines. Kenmore turned the ship end-for-end and began the finicky process of deceleration and landing, with only disaster to report.
It was not a happy landing. The journey had been without a single satisfaction. Kenmore felt relieved that there was no landing beam—which might be mere neglect—because it required a higher degree of concentration on something other than bitterness.
So the Earthship drifted down and down. There were creakings and groanings as the gyros turned it in emptiness. And they were low enough to see the lonely small light atop the City's main dome before Kenmore fired his last deceleration shots.
They came creaking to the surface, on a space of lava blown clean of dust by the rocket-blast. For the rest— nothing: The City's three artificial mounds were huge for constructions by men; but they were infinitesimal by comparison with the mountains a bare three miles away. While the ship descended, the blue-white flame of its rockets lighted those dust-heaps which were the high spot of human achievement. Then the rockets, released, flew skyward and were gone, and there was no movement anywhere. There was silence. Stillness. Desolation. Heavily, the voyagers went into the airlock to go outside.
Kenmore was last to the ground. Wordlessly, he followed the others toward the City's lock. The physical look of things was drabness. The City's mounds colorless in the earthlight. The high, groping mountains were pallid, save where black shadows lay. Only the stars shone in innumerable colors. Kenmore thought they seemed detachedly to contemplate the defeat of men. And Earth, near the center of the sky, looked mottled and bilious and discouraged.
They went into the main dome. Pitkin again puttered happily among the plants there. Kenmore opened his faceplate and asked dourly, "Any news?"
"But yes," said Pitkin, beaming. "Rogers and Schmidt came in their jeep. There was an accident to their spotter station and they could not stay. They came in for safety. On the way they found the jeeps which had fled the City. They told, here, and Lezd informed the Earth. They went back to try to help."
Kenmore growled. It was infernally plausible. It might even be true that a spotter-station crew had left its post because of an actual accident there, making their full tour of duty impossible. He filed the information in his mind; he neither believed nor disbelieved it.
He led the way into the air dome, and found a part of the hydroponic garden shifted to make room for a surprisingly convincing stage-set representing the Space Laboratory. It had been put together out of partitions from the main dome and bits of technical apparatus from here and there. At first, it looked like a meaningless assembly of propped-up shifted walls; but as he moved, it abruptly turned into a set for use with a television camera.
Lezd contemplated it with an air of satisfaction. "I have made ready for the Space Laboratory broadcast," he said placidly. "Cecile sleeps—I hope. She is wearing when she is frightened. Now she is frightened."
"Now," Kenmore told him, "she will be disappointed, too. The Laboratory is blown to atoms. Literally!"
Lezd blinked at him. Arlene said breathlessly at his elbow, "I'll tell her."
She vanished. Lezd listened with an increasingly wry expression as Kenmore told him of the destruction of the Space Laboratory—without, however, any mention of the reason for it. There was no point in disseminating causes for despair. If the reason was revealed on Earth, that would be bad enough. It shouldn't be public knowledge on the moon; certainly not yet. He'd pledged the chief and Moreau and Arlene to absolute silence— though Arlene had a clear and accurate picture of what security meant.
"But," said Lezd mournfully, with a specialist's strict absorption in his own purposes, "but this is such a good set! It is a pity to waste it!"
The chief said brightly, "Turn it into a radar-spotter post. Haney and I, we belong in one of them. We can give you all kinds of atmosphere!"
Lezd brightened. "That is a good idea! And Miss Gray was almost in one, actually, when the little ship was destroyed and you two picked her up. If anything would please Cecile, that might be it!"
Kenmore went back into the main dome, to the communicator.
He called Earth and reported the blasting of the Space Laboratory. The Very High Authority, who had given such vehement orders to carry a message to it, was called. Joe Kenmore repeated his report, and the Very High Authority seemed about to faint with relief. He went sick and weak, like somebody condemned to death who had received a last-minute reprieve.
Somebody else had to take over. It happened to be Major Gray, Arlene's father.
"Arlene's all right?" he asked sharply.
"Quite all right," said Kenmore. He added, "I understand the missing jeeps were found. Anybody alive in them?"
He waited three seconds for his voice to reach Earth and the answer to begin.
"Everybody's alive," said Gray evenly. "Jeeps from the missile bases reached them. Their air was giving out, but nobody was dead. The jeeps were sabotaged."
Kenmore felt no emotion; he'd expected that. There was consistent evidence that everything which had damaged the City had been done from within—except for the blasting of a cliff to overwhelm Moreau and himself. But it didn't seem to matter particularly, if the whole moon-project was to be abandoned.
"Well?" he asked tiredly. "What else?"
Major Gray said reservedly, "Missile-base jeeps are supplying the refugee's jeeps with air, and repairing the sabotage. They'll be returned to the City. The civilians in them aren't wanted at the bases."
"I can understand that," said Kenmore.
"They'll be brought back to Earth," said Major Gray, in measured fashion. "Naturally! They're pretty badly shocked."
"Oh, surely!" said Kenmore bitterly. "That'll be the excuse for abandoning the whole business of space-travel. Men can't stand it! That'll be the story! And if all goes well—if all goes well!—there will be a gradual rationing of atomic power; then coal and oil will be rationed, because it has to last forever. People will putter with energy from the tides and wind, and there'll be no more thought of the stars and the worlds about them waiting for men to come and live on them! And presently . . ."
Major Gray grimaced. "I advise that you don't think too much in that train. As of the moment, I have orders for you. You will not reveal anything you learned at the Space Laboratory. You will do nothing to increase the discouragement in the City when its people trickle back in their jeeps. You will take extra precautions against further sabotage—if possible. And meanwhile, a Navy ship leaves for the missile base. Wait for orders from someone it will bring."