"We'll move him."
"Even if we have to carry him," added Speedy.
The Scoutmaster overtook the troop in long leaps. Bruce wanted to follow. It looked easy - like flying. He had not liked the crack about carrying him. But Sam grasped him by his left belt grip while Speedy seized the one on his right. "Here we go," Sam warned. "Feet on the ground and try to swing in with us."
Bruce started off confidently. He felt that three days of low gravity in the corridors of Luna City had given him his "legs"; being taught to walk, like a baby, was just hazing.
Nothing to it - he was light as a bird! True, it was hard to keep heel - and - toe; he wanted to float. He gained speed on a downgrade; suddenly the ground was not there when he reached for it. He threw up his hands.
He hung head down on his belt and could hear his guides laughing. "Wha' happened?" he demanded, as they righted him.
"Keep your feet on the ground."
"I know what you're up against," added Speedy, "I've been to Earth. Your mass and weight don't match and your muscles aren't used to it. You weigh what a baby weighs, Earth - side, but you've got the momentum of a fat man."
Bruce tried again. Some stops and turns showed him what Speedy meant. His pack felt like feathers, but unless he banked his turns, it would throw him, even at a walk. It did throw him, several times, before his legs learned.
Presently, Sam asked, "Think you're ready for a slow lope?"
"I guess so."
"Okay - but remember, if you want to turn, you've got to slow down first - or you'll roll like a hoop. Okay, Speedy. An eight - miler."
Bruce tried to match their swing. Long, floating strides, like flying. It was flying! Up! ... float ... brush the ground with your foot and up again. It was better than skating or skiing.
"Wups!" Sam steadied him. "Get your feet out in front."
As they swung past, Mr. Andrews gave orders for a matching lope.
The unreal hills had moved closer; Bruce felt as if he had been flying all his life. "Sam," he said, "do you suppose I can get along by myself?"
"Shouldn't wonder. We let go a couple o' miles back."
"Huh?" It was true; Bruce began to feel like a Moon hand.
Somewhat later a boy's voice called "Heel and toe!"
The troop dropped into a walk. The pathfinder stood on a rise ahead, holding his skis up. The troop halted and unlashed skis. Ahead was a wide basin filled with soft, powdery stuff.
Bruce turned to Sam, and for the first time looked back to the west. "Jiminy Crickets!" he breathed.
Earth hung over the distant roof of Luna City, in half phase. It was round and green and beautiful, larger than the harvest Moon and immeasurably more lovely in forest greens, desert browns and glare white of cloud.
Sam glanced at it. "Fifteen o'clock."
Bruce tried to read the time but was stumped by the fact that the sunrise line ran mostly across ocean. He questioned Sam. "Huh? See that bright dot on the dark side? That's Honolulu - figure from there."
Bruce mulled this over while binding his skis, then stood up and turned around, without tripping. "Hmmm - " said Sam, "you're used to skis."
"Got my badge."
"Well, this is different. Just shuffle along and try to keep your feet."
Bruce resolved to stay on his feet if it killed him. He let a handful of the soft stuff trickle through his glove. It was light and flaky, hardly packed at all. He wondered what had caused it.
Mr. Andrews sent Speedy out to blaze trail; Sam and Bruce joined the column. Bruce was hard put to keep up. The loose soil flew to left and right, settling so slowly in the weak gravity that it seemed to float in air - yet a ski pole, swung through such a cloud, cut a knife - sharp hole without swirling it.
The column swung wide to the left, then back again. Off to the right was a circular depression perhaps fifty yards across; Bruce could not see the bottom. He paused, intending to question Sam; the Scoutmaster's voice prodded him. "Bruce! Keep moving!"
Much later Speedy's voice called out, "Hard ground!" Shortly the column reached it and stopped to remove skis. Bruce switched off his radio and touched his helmet to Sam's.
"What was that back where the Skipper yelled at me?"
"That? That was a morning glory. They're poison!"
"A 'morning glory'?"
"Sort of a sink hole. If you get on the slope, you never get out. Crumbles out from under you and you wind up buried in the bottom. There you stay - until your air gives out. Lot of prospectors die that way. They go out alone and are likely to come back in the dark."
"How do you know what happens if they go out alone?"
"Suppose you saw tracks leading up to one and no tracks going away?"
"Oh!" Bruce felt silly.
The troop swung into a lope; slowly the hills drew closer and loomed high into the sky. Mr. Andrews called a halt. "Camp," he said. "Sam, spot the shelter west of that outcropping. Bruce, watch what Sam does.
The shelter was an airtight tent, framed by a half cylinder of woven heavy wire. The frame came in sections. The Scoutmaster's huge pack was the air bag.
The skeleton was erected over a ground frame, anchored at corners and over which was spread an asbestos pad. The curved roof and wall sections followed. Sam tested joints with a wrench, then ordered the air bag unrolled. The air lock, a steel drum, was locked into the frame and gasketed to the bag. Meanwhile, two Scouts were rigging a Sun shade.
Five boys crawled inside and stood up, arms stretched high. The others passed in all the duffel except skis and poles. Mr. Andrews was last in and closed the air lock. The metal frame blocked radio communication; Sam plugged a phone connection from the lock to his helmet. "Testing," he said.
Bruce could hear the answer, relayed through Sam's radio. "Ready to inflate."
"Okay." The bag surged up, filling the frame. Sam said, "You go on, Bruce. There's nothing left but to adjust the shade."
"I'd better watch."
"Okay." The shade was a flimsy Venetian blind, stretched over the shelter. Sam half - opened the slats. "It's cold inside," he commented, "from expanding gas. But it warms up fast." Presently, coached by phone, he closed them a bit. "Go inside," he urged Bruce. "It may be half an hour before I get the temperature steady."
"Maybe I should," admitted Bruce. "I feel dizzy."
Sam studied him. "Too hot?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"You've held still in the Sun too long. Doesn't give the air a chance to circulate. Here." Sam opened Bruce's supply valve wider; "Go inside."
Gratefully, Bruce complied.
As he backed in, and straightened up, two boys grabbed him. They closed his valves, unlocked his helmet, and peeled off his suit. The suit traveled from hand to hand and was racked. Bruce looked around.
Day lamps were strung from air lock to a curtain at the far end that shut off the sanitary unit. Near this curtain suits and helmets were racked. Scouts were lounging on both sides of the long room. Near the entrance a Scout was on watch at the air conditioner, a blood - oxygen indicator clipped to his ear. Nearby, Mr. Andrews phoned temperature changes to Sam. In the middle of the room Chubby had set up his commissary. He waved. "Hi, Bruce! Siddown - chow in two shakes."
Two Scouts made room for Bruce and he sat. One of them said, "Y'ever been at Yale?" Bruce had not. "That's where I'm going," the Scout confided. "My brother's there now." Bruce began to feel at home.
When Sam came in Chubby served chow, beef stew, steaming and fragrant, packaged rolls, and bricks of peach ice cream. Bruce decided that Moon Scouts had it soft. After supper, the Bugler got out his harmonica and played. Bruce leaned back, feeling pleasantly drowsy.