Writers of the Future Anthologies

A Man in the Moon

“You’re dying.” 

The older man laughed and adjusted his collar. “We’re all dyin’, Dickie Bird. Jest a matter of time.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know you’re serious.” He zipped up his cuffs and snapped over the ends, then strapped his big pilot’s watch over his wrist. “I know you’re serious, Dick. Fact is, I know I’m dyin’, too. I’ve got NDC—it was jest a matter of time before you quacks over here found out about it.” 

NDC was common shorthand for NODC— Non-Operable Dispersed Cancer. The medical literature described NODC as a series of new diseases endemic from living in a modern, technological age. Exposure to some inadvertent cocktail of environmental chemicals, outgassing of toxins from the warm electronics which surrounded everyone every day—research suggested both had a role. Either way it was a new, not well understood clinical condition killing eleven hundred Americans a year and some ten thousand around the world. 

And here was Gene Fisher-Hall joking about it. The man who had more time in the Block 700 and 800 third-gen shuttles and was certainly among the leaders in both orbital and lunar habitat living. All those close quarters with minimal fresh air. Hellebore hated to think that Gene was just the first in the astronaut corps, but how could one tell? 

“You know there isn’t a thing I can do for you,” Hellebore said bluntly. 

“I know.” 

“The N-O stands for Non-Operable.” 

“Dickie,” Gene said in a sterner voice. “I said I know.” 

The doctor folded his arms and looked at him for a moment. “How long, Gene?” 

The astronaut shrugged and slipped into his flight boots, then Velcroed the straps over. “Five, six months.” 

“You’ve made four runs since then!” 

Gene held up a hand with all the fingers spread out. “Five. That’s five A-plus-plus missions, Dickie Bird. So don’t you even mention the ground-word.” 

“I’ve got to—it’s the rules.” 

Gene stood up and placed his right hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Dick, the rules gotta change.” He pointed up at an angle toward the ceiling, but that wasn’t really where he was pointing. “If we’re goin’ up there, we’re goin’ up there to live. There’s no other way, Dickie. Otherwise, it’s just some sort of a temporary fraternity job for hotshot young pilots. Spring Break on the Moon—come home an’ give yer Mom a moon rock. No, it’s got to be more than that, so much more.” 

“That’s a nice speech, Gene. Rehearse it long?” Hellebore asked, unfazed. “Because it doesn’t change the cold medical facts.” 

“We’re going to go up there, do our jobs, get sick, injured, even killed—and sometimes we’re just plain gonna die. No way around it. That big moon base plan Jim Marshall’s workin’ on? The one we’re building right now? You know I’ve spent years on it, too. Even before we drop the first modules and assemble the first kit, I’d know my way ’round the damned place blindfolded.” 

“I know you’ve worked hard . . .” 

“Dickie, we are so close,” Gene held up two fingers nearly touching. “No way am I not participatin’ in the 

next step of the greatest adventure in human history.” 

“It’s a role for others to play.” 

“No way!” 

“There’ll be plenty for a man of your experience to do on the ground.” 

The older man held up a hand in a stop sign. “Dickie—shut up. I’m havin’ my say now.”