Deus volent, I may someday collect my Boy Scout stories as one volume just as I would like to do with the Puddin' stories.
NOTHING EVER HAPPENS ON THE MOON
"I never knew a boy from Earth who wasn't cocky."
Mr. Andrews frowned at his Senior Patrol Leader.
"That's childish, Sam. And no answer. I arrive expecting to find the troop ready to hike. Instead I find you and our visitor about to fight. And both of you Eagle Scouts! What started it?"
Sam reluctantly produced a clipping. "This, I guess.
It was from the Colorado Scouting News and read:
"Troop 48, Denver - LOCAL SCOUT SEEKS SKYHIGH HONOR. Bruce Hollifield, Eagle Scout, is moving with his family to South Pole, Venus. Those who know Bruce - and who doesn't - expect him to qualify as Eagle (Venus) in jig time. Bruce will spend three weeks at Luna City, waiting for the Moon - Venus transport. Bruce has been boning up lately on lunar Scouting, and he has already qualified in space suit operation in the vacuum chamber at the Pike's Peak space port. Cornered, Bruce admitted that he hopes to pass the tests for Eagle Scout (Luna) while on the Moon.
"If he does - and we're betting on Bruce! - he's a dead cinch to become the first Triple Eagle in history.
"Go to it, Bruce! Denver is proud of you. Show those Moon Scouts what real Scouting is like."
Mr. Andrews looked up. "Where did this come from?"
"Uh, somebody sent it to Peewee."
"Yes?"
"Well, we all read it and when Bruce came in, the fellows ribbed him. He got sore."
"Why didn't you stop it?"
"Uh .. . well, I was doing it myself."
"Humph! Sam, this item is no sillier than the stuff our own Scribe turns in for publication. Bruce didn't write it, and you yahoos had no business making his life miserable. Send him in. Meantime call the roll."
"Yes, sir. Uh, Mr. Andrews - "
"Yes?"
"What's your opinion? Can this kid possibly qualify for lunar Eagle in three weeks?"
"No - and I've told him so. But he's darn well going to have his chance. Which reminds me: you're his instructor."
"Me?" Sam looked stricken.
"You. You've let me down, Sam; this is your chance to correct it. Understand me?"
Sam swallowed. "I guess I do."
"Send Hollifield in."
Sam found the boy from Earth standing alone, pretending to study the bulletin board. Sam touched his arm. "The Skipper wants you."
Bruce whirled around, then stalked away. Sam shrugged and shouted, "Rocket Patrol - fall in!"
Speedy Owens echoed, "Crescent Patrol - fall in!" As muster ended Mr. Andrews came out of his office, followed by Bruce. The Earth Scout seemed considerably chastened.
"Mr. Andrews says I'm to report to you."
"That's right." They eyed each other cautiously. Sam said, "Look, Bruce - let's start from scratch."
"Suits me."
"Fine. Just tag along with me." At a sign from the Scoutmaster Sam shouted, "By twos! Follow me."
Troop One jostled out the door, mounted a cross-town slidewalk and rode to East Air Lock.
Chubby Schneider, troop quartermaster, waited there with two assistants, near a rack of space suits. Duffel was spread around in enormous piles - packaged grub, tanks of water, huge air bottles, frames of heavy wire, a great steel drum, everything needed for pioneers on the airless crust of the Moon.
Sam introduced Bruce to the Quartermaster. "We've got to outfit him, Chubby."
"That new G.E. job might fit him."
Sam got the suit and spread it out. The suit was impregnated glass fabric, aluminum - sprayed to silvery whiteness. It closed from crotch to collar with a zippered gasket. It looked expensive; Bruce noticed a plate on the collar: DONATED BY THE LUNA CITY KIWANIS KLUB.
The helmet was a plastic bowl, silvered except where swept by the eyes of the wearer. There it was transparent, though heavily filtered.
Bruce's uniform was stowed in a locker; Chubby handed him a loose - knit coverall. Sam and Chubby stuffed him into the suit and Chubby produced the instrument belt.
Both edges of the belt zipped to the suit; there were several rows of grippers for the top edge; thus a pleat could be taken. They fastened it with maximum pleat. "How's that?" asked Sam.
"The collar cuts my shoulders."
"It won't under pressure. If we leave slack, your head will pull out of the helmet like a cork." Sam strapped the air, water, radio, and duffel - rack backpack to Bruce's shoulders. "Pressure check, Chubby."
"We'll dress first." While Chubby and Sam dressed, Bruce located his intake and exhaust valves, the spill valve inside his collar, and the water nipple beside it. He took a drink and inspected his belt.
Sam and Bruce donned helmets. Sam switched on Bruce's walkie - talkie, clipped a blood - oxygen indicator to Bruce's ear, and locked his helmet on. "Stand by for pressure," he said, his words echoing in Bruce's helmet. Chubby hooked hose from a wall gauge to Bruce's air intake.
Bruce felt the collar lift. The air in the suit grew stuffy, the helmet fogged. At thirty pounds Chubby cut the intake, and watched the gauge. Mr. Andrews joined them, a Gargantuan helmeted figure, toting a pack six feet high. "Pressure steady, sir," Chubby reported.
Sam hooked up Bruce's air supply. "Open your intake and kick your chin valve before you smother," he ordered. Bruce complied. The stale air rushed out and the helmet cleared. Sam adjusted Bruce's valves. "Watch that needle," he ordered, pointing to the blood - oxygen dial on Bruce's belt. "Keep your mix so that reads steady in the white without using your chin valve.
"I know."
"So I'll say it again. Keep that needle out of the red, or you'll explain it to Saint Peter."
The Scoutmaster asked, "What load are you giving him?"
"Oh," replied Sam, "just enough to steady him - say three hundred pounds, total."
Bruce figured - at one - sixth gravity that meant fifty pounds weight including himself, his suit, and his pack. "I'll carry my full share," he objected.
"We'll decide what's best for you," the Scoutmaster snapped. "Hurry up; the troop is ready." He left.
Sam switched off his radio and touched helmets. "Forget it," he said quietly. "The Old Man is edgy at the start of a hike." They loaded Bruce rapidly - reserve air and water bottles, a carton of grub, short, wide skis and ski poles - then hung him with field gear, first - aid kit, prospector's hammer, two climbing ropes, a pouch of pitons and snap rings, flashlight, knife. The Moon Scouts loaded up; Sam called, "Come
Mr. Andrews handed the lockmaster a list and stepped inside; the three Scouts followed. Bruce felt his suit expand as the air sucked back into the underground city. A light blinked green; Mr. Andrews opened the outer door and Bruce stared across the airless lunar plain.
It dazzled him. The plain was bright under a blazing Sun. The distant needle - sharp hills seemed painted in colors too flat and harsh. He looked at the sky to rest his eyes.
It made him dizzy. He had never seen a whole skyful of stars undimmed by air. The sky was blacker than black, crowded with hard, diamond lights.
"Route march!" the Scoutmaster's voice rang in his helmet. "Heel and toe. Jack Wills out as pathfinder." A boy left the group in long, floating strides, fifteen feet at a bound. He stopped a hundred yards ahead; the troop formed single column fifty yards behind him. The Pathfinder raised his arm, swung it down, and the troop moved out.
Mr. Andrews and a Scout joined Sam and Bruce. "Speedy will help you," he told Sam, "until Bruce gets his legs. Move him along. We can't heel - and - toe and still make our mileage."