“You seem to know about Lament’s theory.”
“It made the rounds in recent months. The fellow can’t publish and no one takes him seriously, but it was passed along the grapevine. It even reached me.”
“I see, Doctor. But I take it seriously. To me the warning was second time round, you understand. The report of the first warning—from you—had never reached the senator. It had nothing to do with financial irregularities, which were what was then on his mind. The actual head of the investigating panel—not myself—considered it—you will forgive me—crackpot. I did not. When the matter came up again, I grew disturbed. It was my intention to meet with Lamont, but a number of physicists whom I consulted—”
“Including Hallam?”
“No, I did not see Hallam. A number of those I consulted advised me that Lament’s work was utterly without foundation. Even so, I was considering seeing him when I was asked to take up this position, and here I am, and here you are. So you see why I had to see you. In your opinion is there merit in the theories advanced by yourself and by Dr. Lament?”
“You mean is continued use of the Electron Pump going to blow up the Sun, or maybe the entire arm of the Galaxy?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“How can I tell you? All I have is my own guess, which is just a guess. As for Lament’s theory, I have not studied it in detail; it has not been published. If I saw it, the mathematics might be beyond me.... Besides, what’s the difference? Lamont won’t convince anyone. Hallam has ruined him as earlier he ruined me, and the public generally would find it against their short-term interest to believe him even if he went over Hallam’s head, so to speak. They don’t want to give up the Pump, and it’s a lot easier to refuse to accept Lament’s theory than to try to do something about it.”
“But you’re still concerned about it, aren’t you?”
“In the sense that I think we might indeed destroy ourselves and that I wouldn’t like to see that happen, of course.”
“So you’ve come to the Moon, now, to do something that Hallam, your old enemy, would prevent your doing on Earth.”
Denison said, slowly, “You, too, like to make guesses.”
“Do I?” said Gottstein, indifferently. “Perhaps I am brilliant, too. Is my guess correct?”
“It may be. I haven’t given up hope of returning to science. If anything I do were to lift the specter of doom from mankind, either by showing that it does not exist or that it does exist and must be removed, I would be pleased.”
“I see. Dr. Denison, to discuss another point at the moment, my predecessor, the retiring Commissioner, Mr. Montez, tells me that the growing edge of science is here on the Moon. He seems to think a disproportionate quantity of the brains and initiative of mankind is here.”
“He may be right,” said Denison. “I don’t know.”
“He may be right,” agreed Gottstein, thoughtfully, “If so, doesn’t it strike you that this may be inconvenient for your purpose. Whatever you do, men may say and think it was accomplished through the Lunar scientific structure. You personally might gain little in the way of recognition, however valuable the results you present.... Which, of course, would be unjust.”
“I am tired of the rat-race of credit, Commissioner Gottstein. I want some interest in life, more interest than I can find as vice-president in charge of Ultra-sonic Depilatories. I’ll find it in a return to science. If I accomplish something in my own eyes, I will be satisfied.”
“Let us say that that would be insufficient for me. What credit you earn, you should receive; and it should be quite possible for me, as Commissioner, to present the facts to the Terrestrial community in such a way as to preserve for you what is yours. Surely you are human enough to want what is your own.”
“You are kind. And in return?”
“You are cynical. But justly so. In return I want your help. The retiring Commissioner, Mr. Montez, is not certain as to the lines of scientific research being undertaken on the Moon. Communications between the peoples of Earth and Moon are not perfect, and coordination of the efforts on both worlds is clearly for the benefit of all. It is understandable that there’s distrust, I suppose, but if you can do anything to break down that distrust, it will be as valuable to us as your scientific findings might be.”
“Surely, Commissioner, you can’t feel that I’m the ideal man to bear witness to the Lunarites as to how fair-meaning and well-disposed the Earth’s scientific establishment is.”
“You mustn’t confuse one vengeful scientist with the men of the Earth as a whole, Dr. Denison. Let’s put it this way. I would appreciate being kept aware of your scientific findings so that I could help you retain your fair share of credit; and in order to understand your findings properly—I am not a professional scientist myself, remember —it would be helpful if you were to explain them in the light of the present state of science on the Moon. Is it agreed?”
Denison said, “You ask a hard thing. Preliminary results, prematurely disclosed, whether through carelessness or over-enthusiasm, can do tremendous harm to a reputation. I would hate to talk about anything to anyone until I was sure of my ground. My earlier experience with the committee on which you served would certainly encourage me to be cautious.”
“I quite understand,” said Gottstein, heartily. “I would leave it to you to decide when I might usefully be informed.... But I have kept you late and you probably want to sleep.”
Which was a dismissal. Denison left, and Gottstein looked after him thoughtfully.
7
Denison opened the door by hand. There was a contact that would have opened it automatically, but in the blur of waking, he could not find it.
The dark-haired man, with a face that was somehow scowling in repose, said, “I’m sorry.... Am I early?”
Denison repeated the last word to give him time to absorb matters. “Early? ... No. I... I’m late, I think.”
“I called. We made an appointment—”
And now Denison had it. “Yes. You’re Dr. Neville.”
“That’s right. May I come in?”
He stepped in as he asked. Denison’s room was small, and held a rumpled bed that took up most of the available space. The ventilator was sighing softly.
Neville said with meaningless courtesy, “Slept well, I hope?”
Denison looked down at his pajamas and passed his hand over his rumpled hair. “No,” he said abruptly. “I had an abominable night. May I be excused long enough to make myself more presentable?”
“Of course. Would you like to have me prepare breakfast meanwhile? You may be unacquainted with the equipment.”
“It would be a favor,” said Denison.
He emerged some twenty minutes later, washed and shaved, wearing trousers and an undershirt. He said, “I trust I didn’t break the shower. It went off and I couldn’t turn it on again.”
“The water’s rationed. You only get so much. This is the Moon, Doctor. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing scrambled eggs and hot soup for the two of us.”
“Scrambled—”
“We call it that. Earthmen wouldn’t, I suppose.”
Denison said, “Oh!” He sat down with something less than enthusiasm and tasted the pasty yellow mixture that clearly was what the other meant by scrambled eggs. He tried not to make a face at the first taste and then manfully swallowed it and dug in for a second forkful.