“We’ll have to chance that, sir,” Ted said.
“This is no time for heroics, Baker. Get me off this sled.”
“That’s exactly it, sir. We haven’t got any time for heroics. So the sooner you shut up, the sooner we’ll get started.”
Ted turned his back on the lieutenant and picked up the tow line. He looped it over his shoulders and under his armpits.
He started to pull.
The miles went by more slowly now. It had been easier with two men pulling a lighter load. The load had Forbes’s weight added to it now, and Ted was pulling it alone.
Anxiously, he kept glancing at the chrono. Time, unlike distance, seemed to speed along too quickly.
He stopped often, drinking more chocolate than he should have, trying to give himself more of the precious energy he needed. It wasn’t until they had traveled for three hours that he remembered the plant.
“Forbes,” he said suddenly, “the plant!”
“I’ve got it,” Forbes said softly. “Right here in my pouch-pocket. It’ll probably die before we get back, but I’ve got it.”
“If it didn’t die out here on the Moon,” Ted said, “it won’t die in your pouch.”
Forbes didn’t answer. He sat atop the oxygen cylinders like a strange Buddha with a metal head.
“How’s your foot?” Ted asked.
Forbes shrugged.
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe I should put it in my pouch, too,” Forbes said, the faintest trace of humor in his voice.
“Might not be a bad idea,” Ted said. He grinned, and then began moving the sled again.
Forbes was silent for a long time. The only sound Ted heard was his own breathing inside his helmet. He paused once to raise his temperature control, then started moving again. The Moon seemed endless, and Ted wondered if there really was such a place as Mare Imbrium. Maybe it was all an illusion, a grim trick somebody was playing. Maybe all the Moon was just a repetition of one little segment of the Moon. A Moon full of Maria Crisium. From one Mare Crisium to the next, over and over again.
It certainly looked that way.
He had the strange feeling that he had gone over this very ground before. Each crater looked just like the next one. Each sharp rock could have been a twin to the one just passed. The stars overhead looked the same. He kept wishing he’d pass a high outcropping and find a hot-dog stand.
“How would you like a hot dog?” he asked Forbes.
Forbes hesitated, as if he were unsure whether or not he should answer. Finally, he said, “Have you got an extra one?”
“Or a steak,” Ted suggested.
“With French-fried onions and mushrooms and thick sauce, and browned potatoes.”
“Oh, please,” Ted implored. “Please...”
“You started it,” Forbes said, shrugging again.
“Yeah, but I didn’t know I had a chef along with me.”
“Have a swig of chocolate,” Forbes suggested calmly. “It’ll clear your head.”
It wasn’t until that moment that Ted realized something had happened between him and Forbes. He supposed it was a combination of things, but whatever it was, he was thankful. The discovery of the plant had probably been the initial factor. And the meteor shower had helped. And now, whereas Ted couldn’t in truthfulness say he and Forbes were enjoying a blazing friendship, he could say that things had improved tremendously. They were at least talking to each other like human beings — and that could mean much when there were only two human beings as far as the eye could see.
They kept moving, talking occasionally, keeping silent mostly. At 1930 on the button, they ditched their old oxygen cylinders, took two new ones from the sled, and strapped these to their backs. Ted started pulling again, the sled a trifle lighter now. The supply dump seemed a long way off.
When it was morning by their helmet chronos, they decided to stop for a long rest.
“You’ve been on the go for close to twenty-four hours,” Forbes said. “We’re stopping to sleep, whether you like it or not.”
“We’ll use oxygen while we sleep,” Ted said, “and we won’t be making any mileage.”
“If we collapse, we won’t make any mileage anyway,” Forbes countered.
“All right,” Ted said. “We’ll go until 0730. We’ll change our oxygen cylinders then, and then take a short nap.”
“A long nap.”
“A short nap.”
“We’ll sleep until we wake up,” Forbes said.
“I’m a light sleeper,” Ted told him.
They slept from 0735 to 1349. Ted stirred restlessly and opened his eyes. It was dark, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. He turned his head, and one of the rubber tubes slithered across his face. He leaped to his feet, ready to do battle with his unseen foe — and then remembering where he was, he let out a deep breath.
He turned to see Forbes sitting on the pile of cylinders, ready to go.
“How long have you been awake?” he asked.
“Got up just this minute,” Forbes said.
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“Have your breakfast, and let’s go.”
Ted moved his head until he found one of the rubber tubes. He sucked on it, and the vitamin concentrate poured into his mouth, strong with the taste of oil. Quickly, he shifted his head and washed the taste down with a swallow of hot chocolate.
“All right,” he said, “I’ve eaten.”
“Before we start,” Forbes suggested, “I think we’d better check our map.” He reached into his pouch and unfolded the map. Ted walked over to the sled, squatting down beside Forbes.
Forbes laid a finger on the thick paper. “I figure we’re here,” he said.
Ted studied the area Forbes indicated. “You mean we’re just entering Mare Serenitatis?”
“That’s right.”
“But that means we’re behind schedule. We should be in the middle of Mare...”
“I know. But we’re just entering it. I think we are, anyway. Notice how much darker the pumice is just ahead of us. I figure that’s the beginning of the mare.”
“We shouldn’t have stopped to sleep.”
“We had to sleep, Baker. We’re not supermen.”
“All right, but...”
“What are you worried about?”
Ted hesitated. “Our oxygen.”
“Why?”
“We’re behind schedule. I don’t think we’ll have enough to get us there.”
“We’ll have enough.”
“How do you figure?”
“Simple. We were supposed to travel 300 miles a day, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. It would take us three and one-third days to travel a thousand miles.”
“That’s right. But we’re not doing 300 miles a day.”
“Forget that for a minute. Just remember that it’s supposed to take us three and one-third days. Okay?”
Ted shrugged. “Okay, okay.”
“One cylinder of oxygen carries a twelve-hour supply. That means we’d need two cylinders apiece for each day. For three days we’d need six cylinders.”
“Right.”
“For the extra third of a day, we’d need less than a full cylinder. A third of a day is eight hours, and a cylinder will last for twelve hours.”
“I still don’t see...” Ted started.
“We had fourteen cylinders on the sled when we started,” Forbes said. “Plus a cylinder on each of our backs. That’s sixteen cylinders.”
“Eight cylinders apiece,” Ted said.
“Right. Or, in other words, enough for four full days of traveling.”
“But we’re still behind schedule.”
“Not that far behind schedule, though. We’ve got a leeway of about sixteen hours, don’t you see? If it takes us four full days instead of the three and a third we figured on, we’ll still make it.”