Writers of the Future Anthologies

A Man in the Moon

 A Man in the Moon 

written by 

Dr. Philip Edward Kaldon 

illustrated by 

WILLIAM RUHLIG 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

Born in upstate New York, educated at Northwestern and Michigan Tech, Dr. Philip Edward Kaldon teaches physics at Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo by day, while aspiring to write “The Great Science Fiction Romantic Epic” in the wee hours. Since he began submitting to Writers of the Future in June 2002, our very own “Dr. Phil” has collected three Finalists (including this year’s published Finalist “A Man in the Moon”), two Semi-Finalists, ten Quarter-Finalists, four Honorable Mentions, plus four plain old rejects and one lost-in-the-mail. 

During the summer of 2004, Dr. Phil spent six amazing weeks sweltering in an East Lansing sorority house—part of the thirty-seventh Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop—along with then-future twenty-first WOTF Grand Prize winner John Schoffstall and WOTF volume XXIV winner Al Bogdan (who also appears in this volume). While experiencing “lake effect” snow out on Michigan’s Great Lakes during his first half-century on the planet, Dr. Phil says he also managed to find his wife working at the Northwestern University Library. Currently both are held hostage in West Michigan by a set of three cats from an alternate universe where felines rule. 

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR 

William Ruhlig’s lifelong passion for art seems to be blooming. Having completed secondary education at Pretoria Boys High School, in South Africa, he is now studying information design at the University of Pretoria and already knows that “cover artist” is his calling. That’s because he has always been interested in art and continually inspired by the great science fiction authors, movies and science fiction artists around the world. The cover art of books has always impacted him, drawing him into a world hidden in the pages beneath the cover. 

But it’s not just the cover art that attracts him. William admits that he loves reading; in fact, he can’t stop. It fuels his imagination as does watching and immersing himself in science fiction and learning about the actual sciences. William loves the way science fiction has shaped our world and been shaped by technologies. “Don’t judge a book by its cover; perhaps, yes, but also perhaps be inspired by it” is William’s philosophy. 

A Man in the Moon 

“Zip up,” the doctor told the older man. 

“You don’t look too happy there,” the astronaut said, obliging by zipping his jumpsuit back up. His bright blue eyes twinkled with some secret amusement. 

The two men—longtime friends—made quite a study in contrasts. Dr. Richard Hellebore stood five foot seven and while not considered clinically overweight, still exhibited something of a middle-aged thickening of the waist. Most of his short black hair had thinned away long ago. Only forty-seven, Dr. Hellebore had once been married and a family man, but his work and research as a NASA flight surgeon cost him both marriage and children. Sixty-two-year-old Captain Gene Fisher-Hall was ex-Navy, reached six-two when he stood up straight, and sported a thick gray-blond mustache which matched the wavy hair on top. Still comfortably photogenic for an astronaut, Gene came from San Francisco, but his accent had migrated to a decidedly Southern flavor—hard to place—somewhere from Texas to Tennessee to West Virginia. Perfect for a pilot. 

“Gene—I’ve always told you straight.” 

“And I appreciated it, Dick. But you don’t look like you’ve got happy news—so just say it.” 

“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.” 

“Okay, okay.” Dr. Hellebore knew Gene well enough not to argue. 

“I’ll tell you right now what’s missing from the public version of the plan and that’s what goes into Grid L-37. Now you know what Grid L-37 is, don’t you, Dickie? And the chaplain knows—because when he goes up there, he’ll have to consecrate it. L-37 is the cemetery, ain’t it? Gotta be where old spacemen go, and by God it’s where I’m gonna go, Dickie. I’ve got one or two years of prime ability even with this disease, which is a whole lot of missions. Domes 1 and 2 will be up and hotshot pilots like me are gonna move in. Come on, man, I’m doing you a favor,” he clapped the doctor on the arm. “After I’m buried, that’ll free up a prime first-class housing unit.” 

“Gene, this isn’t a joke.” 

“Dickie, I am as serious as a coffin,” Gene said. “I’m only gonna be nice to you because you’re an old friend. Despite the fact that you can ground me in the blink of an eye, I’ve actually liked you all these years. I can’t say that for most of the quacks I’ve seen in the Navy, Air Force or NASA. But what do you want me to do? Break down and cry boo-hoo? Go back to my nice little house in the suburbs and blow my brains out? Move into some Florida retirement home and live out the . . . rest of my days with the other dying old geezers? You sure as goddamn don’t want me to stay in Houston riding a desk. I’m a spaceman and I’m a pilot. Baaad combination. Means I’m in the top 99.99 percentile physical fitness of all NDC patients and my brain ain’t made of jelly. It means No is negotiable. I’m going up there to live, Dickie. You gotta let us live. Hell, nobody’s ever had NDC in space before.” 

“Gene, you can’t. What if you have an episode?” 

“I’ll see a doctor.” 

“Gene . . .” 

“What if I blow a blood vessel and have a stroke? What if some poor clerk at the Foodmart sneezes and I catch the Tri-Asian Flu? What if a seal breaks when there ain’t a suit handy and some hotshot twenty-seven-year-old mission specialist throws a switch the wrong way and people die? This is a dangerous profession, my friend. Crap happens. Too bad, then let’s move on so we can learn from our mistakes. Hell, update your physical and ride up with us on mission C-13. We’ll have the nice housing units installed by then. If you want to, I’ll even let ya room with me up there. I’ll be your own personal guinea pig.” 

The doctor squinted. “If I thought you were serious, Gene ...” 

“Hell, yes, I’m serious. I told you—I’m not gonna accept No. But I’m willing to meet ya halfway. No one’s ever had NDC in reduced gravity conditions. Reduced air pressures. Reduced 02 partial pressures. You’ve got no idea whether I’ll live—longer or shorter under those conditions. Now have you?” 

“No,” Hellebore admitted. 

“Then maybe I’ll live longer out in space.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“And you don’t know if these NASA spacecraft and living modules are the cause of the NDC and will make me worse.” 

“I can’t take that risk.” 

“It ain’t yours to take, Dickie Boy,” Gene said, poking the doctor in the chest with a finger. “Besides,” he paused to smile broadly, before making his killer pitch, “I’d make that NDC Foundation happy, make the president happy—and bring a whole lotta hope to a whole lotta people.” 

Dr. Hellebore was stopped by this argument. The NODC Foundation, in just ten years, stood as the second largest medical research fund in the nation. Mostly this was due to the tough luck story of the first lady, who’d finally succumbed to NODC only five months earlier. The president was talking of making medical research to find a cure the hallmark of his reelection campaign platform, and according to early polling, eighty-three percent of the population agreed. The public was scared by every sudden onset of new disease, but didn’t want to give up their love affair with technology. With a high-visibility case on the Moon . . . Gene’s idea was crazy, but not so crazy it didn’t have legs. 

“NASA runs on those tough old Federal dollars,” Gene gently reminded the doctor. He was pretty sure they were already on the downhill side to his argument. 

“Yes,” Hellebore agreed, still thinking. “Yes it does.” 

The astronaut turned on the charm. “So it wouldn’t be so bad to try to hang on to those dollars when the prez is looking for budget lines to trim—and maybe pick up a couple more for your new research grant, eh?” 

“Yes, but . . .” 

“Ain’t no ‘buts’ here.” 

“I’m afraid there are. NASA doesn’t need to take another hit when another astronaut—you—dies in space.” 

“Ain’t gonna die in space.” 

“Die on the Moon, then.” 

“Fact is, Dickie Bird, the Good Lord willing I’m gonna be the first man planted in the Moon.” The thought made Gene laugh out loud. 

“You’re crazy.” 

“Maybe. But I’m a pilot and an astronaut. Ain’t no way you can make a charge of clinical crazy stick.” 

“I didn’t mean it that way.” 

But Gene still had that twinkle in his eye. “Yessir—the first Man in the Moon, for sure.” 

Well, this is a helluva thing,” Assistant NASA Director Herb Flowers said, flinging a report folio onto his desk. “How the hell am I supposed to sell this?” 

“It’s not a matter of selling,” Dr. Hellebore said. 

“The hell it isn’t! You want me to risk a hundred-billion-dollar project on this idiot Gene Fish-” 

“Gene is not an idiot,” Hellebore said, finding himself standing and leaning over Herb’s desk. He was shaking. “The man has a point. There’s nothing I can ground him on right now.” 

“He’s sick.” 

“He has a disease. It’ll eventually kill him. But not right away. He’s passed his physical—twice.” 

By now Herb was standing on his side of the desk. “I cannot sign off on this goddamn thing.” 

“You’re going to have to, Herb.” 

“I don’t have to do anything, Doctor. NASA does not do this sort of thing.” 

“It’s going to have to if you want people to believe you’re serious about a permanent base on the Moon. One where people like Gene Fisher-Hall go to live, work—and eventually die.” My God, Dr. Hellebore thought, I sound like Gene’s cheerleader. “The American public will be on Gene’s side, too, Herb. And I hate to say it, because it sounds so crass and political, but the president is going to be on Gene’s side. You’ve got to sign off on this proposal.” 

“You’re too emotionally attached to this issue.” 

“Maybe so,” Hellebore admitted. “But you better consider the possibility that your space modules are the culprit here. NODC is a technological disease. Gene Fisher-Hall today—the man with the most hours in space—who’s next?” 

“Get out of here, Doctor.” 

“We need a research program. We have a prime candidate.” 

Herb glared at the doctor. “I’ll deal with this—and you—later.” 

Gene lumbered up the access arm to the cockpit of the third-generation shuttle Aires in his flight suit, emergency chute and twenty-five-minute transfer pack. Half a dozen friendly faces awaited him. He knew everyone who worked the launches at the Cape and they all knew him. 

“Gene,” Bill Koontz said, noting the time of the pilot’s arrival on his clipboard, “there’s a rumor going around Flowers has it in for you.” 

“Really? Now that’s real unlikely,” Gene said, taking the clipboard and signing his own name in the appropriate box. “Would require the bastard to make a decision, wouldn’t it?” 

“So you’re not grounded?” 

“For what?” Gene acted offended, which only told Bill that something really was up. “Check the net—I got clearances from not one, but two NASA flight surgeons. Wouldn’t want ol’ Herb to think I had any favorites or anything.” 

Bill made the appropriate sympathetic noises to Gene, all the while making a query over the launch network. It wasn’t that he doubted Gene, it was more how Gene had made it clear to Bill he was supposed to check up on him. Sure enough, Drs. Alan Petrys and Laura Templeton had both approved Captain Fisher-Hall for space travel and launch. He was surprised not to see Dr. Richard Hellebore’s name on the list. 

Leaning forward to talk discreetly in Gene’s ear, Bill asked, “Is this about you? Or is it something about Dick?” 

Gene didn’t play dumb—not with Bill Koontz. Not after all the years the two had worked together. “Jest a little misunderstanding between me ’n’ Herb,” Gene said in a quiet drawl. “Ain’t nothing to worry about.” 

Louder, Gene spoke to the small knot of techs still in the swing arm. “See all you loser ground-pounders week after next.” 

Then he spoke quietly back to Bill. “Dick’ll be fine after this flight. You’ll see. We got ourselves a lunar base to assemble. Insert Tab A into Slot B an’ all that.” 

Bill Koontz shook his head. “Right, Gene. Have a good flight.” 

The Moon loomed out of the narrow windows of Lunar Lander 3. Five months had passed since NASA became aware of Gene’s condition and still nothing formal had happened. Gene had been hoping just to make it to this landing, when they had enough materials to start Dome 1, but now, of course, he wanted more. He wanted to see the first real permanent Moon base built. He wanted to live in it. 

“Fifteen seconds,” Karl Brüner said from the copilot’s seat. The German worked both European Space Agency and NASA missions, just as Gene sometimes flew the ESA’s shuttle. Though Americans mostly thought of the Moon base as a strictly American project, NASA made sure to keep its international friends involved—Gene was happy to play ambassador and have another spacecraft type in his logbook. 

Gene gave Karl a curt acknowledgment, but his concentration remained focused on what he called the landing picture. Eyes darting across the screens, he had his target error down to less than half a centimeter—too little for the instruments to register. Nothing he could complain about. 

“Engines up,” Gene said, tweaking the controls just enough to bring the lunar lander to a complete stop precisely as the contact lights showed green on all six landing struts. 

“Contact.” 

“And we’re down,” Gene said with some satisfaction. “Houston, Cargo Load C-1 is on the Moon. Engines off, controls safed. How’d I do?” 

Gene grinned at Karl during the three-second delay to Earth and back. Karl shook his head. 

“Gene, Karl—you did all right. And with the successful delivery of the C-1 container, construction on the first large-scale permanent Moon base can commence. Welcome to the Moon, gentlemen.” 

“Glad you liked it, Houston. Signing off now—we’ve got some chores to do before sundown,” Gene said, then switched the radio to standby. 

“You do know sunset is nine days away,” Karl pointed out. 

“Sure. Just as I know Cammy Stevens back there is chomping at the bit to start putting her modules together. Got no time to mess with Houston right now.” 

Karl sat back in his seat, gazing out across the jumble of sterile off-gray terrain which was Man’s new home. “I shall miss flying with you, Gene.” 

“Then don’t quit, boy. Y’all can always retire later.” 

“No, good friend,” Karl said. “It is time to go. Trina and the children need me, you see.” 

“Move them up here when the time comes.” Gene tried not to grimace as his left hand slowly began to seize up. “You’ve got seniority, I’ve got some pull.” 

“No,” Karl said, slowly shaking his head. “Trina would never do it. Besides, this is the end of these old landers. You have your shiny new LT Lunar Transports coming next month.” 

“And you could fly those, too. Should be sweet,” Gene said, massaging his left hand with his right until the stiffness went away. Dr. Hellebore had explained that “dispersed cancer” didn’t attack the nerves directly, but affected the tissues surrounding them and that seizures and cramps would become more and more common over time. “You’re way too young to be hanging up your wings.” 

“Maybe for an iron man like you, Gene,” Karl said, releasing his straps and leveraging himself out of the seat. “But I am done.” 

Gene laughed. “You short-timers are all alike. You’ll be done when Trina sees you and you get to hug your kids. Until then, your ass is mine and we’ve got work to do.” 

“Or Dr. Stevens will get on our case.” 

“Naw, Cammy’s on the Moon. She’s too thrilled to finally be here with all her gear and starting the job. I jest don’t want to get on ol’ Jim Marshall’s bad side and delay his baby even one minute.” 

“You are too modest, Gene. You are as responsible for this project as your friend Jim Marshall.” 

“True. But pardon me if I don’t go around tootin’ my own horn too much in the meantime.” 

“And I am beginning to understand even your most quaint expressions, Gene. I need to return to Germany before you corrupt me further.” 

“Too late for that, friend,” Gene grinned. 

“No doubt,” the German agreed. “And how are you getting home, Gene? Did you decide between ESA or the Russians?” 

“I flew with the Russians the last time. Jim says I should fly with the French this time—wouldn’t want to show favorites with our friends.” 

“Share the pain of Gene Fisher-Hall with everyone?” Karl asked innocently. 

“Something like that,” Gene said. 

The two men chuckled as they left the lander’s cramped cockpit. Gene flexed his fingers a couple of times, but the incident was over. For now. 

It would only get worse from here. 

Well, Dickie Bird,” Gene greeted the doctor as he entered their prefabricated living module in Dome 1 fifteen months later. “See you finally cleared the safety briefing.” 

“Yeah, finally. God, that was arduous. How’d you ever learn all this stuff?” 

“Shoot—I wrote most of it and had Jim Marshall proof it and clean it. Spiffed it up jest right.” 

“Well, it’s torture. Incomprehensible.” 

“It’s life on the Moon, Dickie. Besides, old Jim Marshall took out all the color and flavor I put in. Told him it was a mistake to delete the fun, but NASA knows best.” 

“I’m sure.” Dr. Hellebore looked up at the top bunk reluctantly. He wore the ankle weights and heavy vest they issued to newbies on the Moon to keep them grounded in the one-sixth gravity while they learned to walk and hop. “Where do I sleep?” 

Gene effortlessly kicked off the floor and, with one hand, touched the ceiling and redirected his body to land laid out in the top bunk. “We’ll stick you with the bottom bunk for now, Dickie. Till you grow some moon legs. You can have my bunk when I’m gone.” 

Hellebore, who was quite sure he couldn’t reproduce Gene’s maneuver without doing great bodily injury to himself, quickly agreed. Long used to the pilot’s gallows humor, frankly, a healthy attitude towards his disease would probably make him live longer, so who was Hellebore to complain? 

He was about to try to make a joke, when an alarm began to hoot. “An accident? Or a drill?” 

“Sonofabitch,” Gene swore and jumped down to the deck. “Better follow me, Dickie Bird—someone’s going to need a doctor. I hope.” 

In fact, Hellebore wasn’t able to keep up with Gene, but it hardly mattered—he couldn’t get lost. A lot of station personnel were headed to the scene, so the doctor simply had to keep after them. One more turn and he realized they were in one of the staging areas before the large cargo airlocks. 

Gene came back to stop Hellebore. “Can’t go on without a spacesuit, Dickie. And Trevino doesn’t need a doctor. He’s all past doctoring and medicine.” 

“Trevino? Daniel Trevino?” 

“Yup.” 

“But I know him.” 

“You know lots of the boys and girls up here, Dickie. Never said this wasn’t a dangerous place or that it wouldn’t hurt when someone dies.” 

“I thought you wanted to be the first to die on the Moon,” Hellebore said rather pointedly, regretting the barb even as he spoke. 

“Of natural causes,” Gene said softly. He put an arm on the doctor’s shoulder and bowed his head for a minute. When he straightened up the astronaut was all business again. “I’ll bring Danny in. This is your first day—go back to our place.” 

“I think my place is in the medical unit.” 

“Uh-huh. And your medical bag, which you forgot to bring, is still in our place. You’d better go get it if you’re going to be worth a damn to anyone.” 

T he mood in the pilot’s Ready Room was somber as they filed in. Gene sat cross-legged on the desk in front, nodding an acknowledgment to each man and woman while saying nothing aloud. When Lt. Tyrone Keene came in and closed the doors, that was the signal to begin. 

“Okay, here’s how it’s going to go. We’re taking Danny Trevino home per his prior request.” Gene looked up at the assembled pilots. “Ty Keene was probably his best friend up here—Ty and I will fly the LT-1 Copernicus. Big minds in the US, Europe, Russia, Japan, China and India all figure this is a deal. First fatal accident on the Moon and all. Time to show some solidarity that we’re here to stay. So we’ll be escorted by the ESA transport and a Russian out of their base. Crewmen from England, France and Italy on the one, Russia, Poland and India on the second. China, Japan and Germany will meet us in Earth orbit. If you’ve been picked, you’ll get your assignment shortly.” 

Gene paused. “I think every one of us would go and honor Danny if we could, but we can’t. Life has to go on. I don’t know ’bout you guys, but I intend to live on the Moon and one day retire here. So don’t beg and moan for an assignment on this detail. We let the governments decide this one, this time. I’m sure this won’t be the funeral Danny thought he’d planned for, but this has gotten bigger than all of us. 

“One last thing—we just had a bad accident. Jim Marshall is already rallying the non-flight crews and reminding them to be safe. So everything is by the book right now. We have procedures for a reason. Trust in them.” 

The warm breeze never let up during the graveside service. The cemetery was an oasis of quiet amidst the great sea of Indiana corn and soybeans which surrounded the little town in all directions. Gene hadn’t worn his Navy dress uniform in two years—he didn’t even have one on the Moon where weight restrictions didn’t allow for such nonessential clothing. Thankfully it still fit. Gene’s job here was to stand and be seen, representing the corps of astronauts, NASA, the Navy—Danny Trevino was a fellow naval officer, even if he’d been thirty years younger. Even if Danny was an idiot. 

Gene wasn’t about to voice his own opinions to anyone. He’d leave it to the accident review board and see if they agreed with him that Danny’s death was stupid and unnecessary. But no matter which way they ruled, Gene and his buddy Jim Marshall would shortly issue new safety regulations. No doubt Dickie Hellebore would find that amusing, Gene figured. The good doctor probably thought a lot of Gene’s looser activities were stunts bordering on the irresponsible. Hellebore didn’t understand the difference between confident control and recklessness. 

As the vice president of the United States presented Danny’s mother with the folded triangle of the flag of a grateful nation, Gene saw the line of Marines prepare for the volley of rifle fire. That was the toughest moment of a military funeral. The sharp reports breaking the quiet of the moment. Military personnel steeled themselves; civilians flinched. 

A flight of four Navy F-44C fighter jets approached from the south. Gene had to correct himself—this was the toughest moment. Four jets streaking in overhead, one suddenly leaving the middle of the flight and streaking skyward in the classic missing man formation. For the briefest of moments as the roar of eight high-performance engines blasted the cemetery, Gene had a twinge of emotion. He dearly loved to fly—under other circumstances he would’ve rather flown in that flyover than stand here on display all gussied and trussed. But he was a spaceman now, not a flyboy. There was no room for regrets. 

It was a long stint of standing in full Earth gravity. Gene was pretty sure he’d pay for it the next day. Fortunately the tremor in his left leg quieted and his right hand seizure had ebbed, allowing him to administer the final salute to his fallen comrade without wavering. Tomorrow Gene would take it easy. But time was running out for him. 

Jim Marshall says Danny didn’t deserve the show,” Hellebore told Gene when he’d returned to the Moon. “I was rather shocked.” 

Gene made a sour face. “Jim shouldn’t have said that. Not out loud, anyways.” 

“Then you agree?” 

“The show was for the program. Danny shouldn’t ’ve jumped from that damned transporter. He was showin’ off. One-sixth G slow-motion fall. Except you push off from a stack of containers and they can still fall on you. I swear, Dickie Bird, sometimes I think people figure they’re invulnerable in a spacesuit. But it ain’t a suit of armor. Good people can and will get hurt in spacesuits. And doing something stupid will most certainly have the potential to bite you on the ass and kill you.” 

“Then I don’t understand,” the doctor said. “I thought Danny Trevino was your friend. How can you say such things?” 

“Speak ill of the dead?” Gene laughed bitterly. “Danny was a good ol’ boy from the farm belt outside Indianapolis. I served with his daddy ...let’s just say a long time ago. I babysat for him and his brother a number of times. But he was always cocky. And this time it killed him. That’s a fact. You can’t let friendship take your eye off the truth. Read the accident report when it comes out—the classified version. The one we’ll keep up here and not send on to Earth. Otherwise drop it, Dickie Bird. For the good of the program.” 

The light show outside the cockpit of the shuttle amazed young Simon Benedict. He glanced to the other seat only to see the veteran sitting there calmly, waiting on their next reentry checkpoint, completely ignoring the brilliant plasma ionization flashes. This wasn’t some simulator, this was real friction heating. How could the old man be so calm? 

Gene wasn’t thinking about plasmas as he stared down at his left hand. It sat there on the arm rest, still throbbing and no longer responding to his brain’s commands. The seizure would go away in a few minutes, he knew, but they were in the middle of a reentry maneuver. He needed his hand to function and time was running out. 

“All right, Rookie,” he said nonchalantly. “Put your old hands on those controls and bring us on in.” 

“Are you serious?” 

“Son—we’re on a hot reentry run from orbital speed. Lots of one-half em-vee-squared, if you know what I mean. Outside the temperature’s screaming up past Hellfire and heading towards Armageddon. Now do you think this is a good time for old Gene Fisher-Hall to be joshing?” 

“Uh, no, sir.” 

“You’re trained and you ain’t pranged the simulator in the last two weeks. You might as well take the trial by fire. I’m still here to back you up.” 

“Uh, yes, sir,” Benedict said, taking over. “We’re at Item Three-Eighty-Two and coming up on Decision Point Forty. I have the controls.” 

“Ground-based radar and telemetry look good,” Gene noted. “You could practically put her in Auto-Land mode and take a vacation, but let’s jest do it by the book for now.” 

“Thanks, Gene.” 

“For what?” the old man asked, trying not to grin at the kid’s enthusiasm. 

“For showing confidence in me on my first mission.” 

“Aw, forget it. Everyone’s trained so much anyone could do it on their first run. I was jest thinking it was time to hang it up an’ stop dropping all the way down to Earth. Thought maybe I’d let you take her so I could do some sightseeing.” 

“You’re retiring?” 

“Retiring? Hell, no! I jest figured if I moved out to space, it was about time to move to space permanent-like and stop making the commute down the gravity well all the way to hit Earth. I’ll be content to make the runs to Earth orbit from the Moon. One more big scary launch from the Cape and I’m gone for good from this planet.” 

“Sir—are you all right?” 

Gene glared at the kid. “Who you been talking to, son? I’m fine. I’ve already explained myself—and that’s that.” 

The doctor stood as the aging pilot sat in the small lunar base medical compartment. The heart still sounded good, he had to admit. Clear breath sounds. Reflexes sharp. No gross medical abnormalities, besides the slow spread of his disease. 

“How’s the hero business going, Gene?” 

“As well as it can, I s’pose.” 

“Feeling all right?” 

“Want me to do a hundred chin-ups right now?” 

“Not much of a challenge in sixth-G.” 

“Naw, I suppose not.” 

“I’ve heard a rumor NASA figures to rename the base for you when you finally die.” 

“I ain’t dead yet, Dickie.” 

“No, not at all. But I was wondering—what will NASA do for the second dead guy on the Moon?” 

“You mean the third? ’Cause I clearly remember having to pack up ol’ Danny Trevino and send his corpse to Earth.” 

“I thought you didn’t want to count him, since it wasn’t natural causes.” 

“Dead is dead. But anyways, I’m assuming you’re talking about whoever dies after I kick the bucket farm.” 

“Sure.” 

“That’s the whole point, Dickie Bird,” Gene managed to say with a sly grin. “The first guys—they’re the shock. Afterwards . . . well, it never gets easy, but then again, the old US Air Force didn’t go around renaming Edwards every time they lost another test 

pilot. One big rename event per customer.” 

“You’re enjoying this too much.” 

“Gotta enjoy it now—’cause I’ll miss the rest when I’m gone.” 

“Lt. Benedict says you abruptly changed procedures on your last drop to Earth.” 

Gene didn’t act surprised. He assumed the doctor knew. “Aw, Dickie Bird, I was jest giving the boy a chance to prove himself on his first mission . . .” 

“And the fact that your hand seized up again didn’t have anything to do with it?” 

Gene glared at his friend the doctor. “Remind me to accidentally unplug my telemetry harness next time I go to work.” 

“You promised you wouldn’t put anyone in jeopardy.” 

“And I didn’t!” Gene said, more forcefully than he intended. “I didn’t try to fake it, nor did I try some stupid stunt like crossing over with my other hand. I didn’t make a fuss and just real casual-like handed control over to the copilot. Who was fully trained and still under my supervision, I might add, which is why he’s in that other damned seat in the first place. 

“Anyway,” he said in a less confrontational tone, “I told the boss I was here in space for good now. And I won’t be flying those shuttles down any more, just the lunar transports as far as Low Earth Orbit.” 

“But you’re still going to be flying.” 

“You don’t play fast and loose air jockey in pure zero-G, my man. You set up the runs and let the computers make the big decisions. Close maneuvering? 

The joy stick is front and center and can be flown with either hand. You’re not locked into a five-point harness and watching gravity shoot up past four G’s. I’m not endangering anyone, Dickie.” 

“Well . . . at least you’re giving up the ground landings. On Earth, I mean,” Hellebore hastily added, just in case Gene tried to quibble again. 

“I’m being real good, Dickie Bird. Real good. You said it yourself last week—I’m still ahead of the curve on this NDC thing. Moon seems to grow on a guy, I reckon.” 

Dr. Hellebore didn’t argue with him. They were already a quarter of a million miles past the point of no return on that score. He might as well stick with Gene and see this through. 

Houston, as usual, still tried to run everything on the Moon. As a declared permanent resident of space, Gene Fisher-Hall felt even less interest in playing things their way. And as senior pilot, he spent more time hanging around Flight Ops when he wasn’t taking his own runs. 

“We’re concerned here,” Mission Control said, starting their latest effort in control, “about the number of gripes showing up on LT-3.” 

“Let me see that damned headset,” Gene said to the officer running the console. “Houston, this here’s Gene up in Flight Ops.” 

He used the three seconds of radio delay to slide into the second seat and wait for the camera light to wink on in front of him. Lunar Transport-3, the Tycho, had never worked as well as theCopernicus or the Galileo. But with Kepler (LT-4) coming online next month, his biggest fear would be they’d ground the troublemaker and stay at three transports, rather than expand the fleet to four. 

“Oh—hi, Gene. Pete Marlin here.” 

“I know who the hell’s on the other end of the line,” Gene said. “I can see the monitor. Now I know what you think you’re about to do here and . . .” 

“Look, I know what you’re going to say,” Marlin said in Mission Control, the two conversations colliding into each other. 

“So it stinks,” Gene said, taking full advantage of the radio etiquette which gave the tie to those off-world. “Ain’t nothing serious wrong with the Tycho, and we need that four-transport capacity if we’re going to get the next dome up on schedule.” 

This time Gene paused to wait for Houston. 

“Safety comes first over schedules. You know that,” Mission Control said predictably. “NASA isn’t going to go down the road of pushing things to disaster again.” 

“Pete, these are NASA transports. Everything’s got double and triple backups. And I know we’re using some of the auxiliary and backup systems from time to time, but we worked this all out yearsago. We’re in the safety zone. Look it up in the book, Pete.” 

“Gene—this is an engineering decision, based on the best opinions of the guys from Lockheed and Boeing ...” 

“Long Term Operations Manual, volume fifteen, page seven-eighty-two. I’ll hold one while you look it up.” 

“LT-4 will be online in four, five weeks. We can take LT-3 out of service now . . .” 

Down to two transports? Gene interrupted again. 

“Do you need the NASA net address for that page? Because I can get it for you.” 

“The administrator does not want to take the risk at this time, Gene.” 

“You know,” Gene said, “I’m the pilot with the most seniority. So I can volunteer to fly the LT-3 on its next two missions. At least ’til we get the Kepler on the road. If you want to take a little time and have a go on troubleshooting Tycho then, well, at least we can stay close to schedule.” 

There was a pause. Gene could see Pete Marlin in Mission Control conferring with someone off-screen. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. And he knew someone in Houston would see him sitting up on the Moon looking supremely confident. 

“It was a good try, Gene,” Flight Ops said off-mike in the seat next to him. The former Air Force officer was thirty-five years junior to the old man, but he was used to capitulating to the big boys in Houston. 

“The hell you say,” Gene said, then smiled like a fat and sassy cat which knew something its owner didn’t. “Longer they sit there jabbering, the better my hand looks. They know I ain’t laying my cards down—so they’re gonna have to fold and do it my way.” 

“Mission Control doesn’t play that way.” 

“Got no choice. I’ve got volume fifteen, page seven-eighty-two, on my side.” 

“What’s that say?” 

“You got a damned computer there—and a full hard copy on that shelf behind your own sad self, shipped up to the Moon at tremendous cost, I might add. Look it up. Either way—I don’t care.” 

Gene waited while the younger man started typing on the keyboard, before speaking. Down to two lunar transports? Maybe he should check on the older lunar landers—they had three of them stored here on the Moon for emergency use. Was keeping to a schedule a sufficient emergency to bring one of them back online? As the page began to scroll on Flight Ops’ screen, Gene switched back to his folksy teaching mode. “You should note the rules say we can score defects according to the book, and shutdown is six hundred points or a major systems failure. We’ve only scored two-eighty on the Tycho and nothing big is broke. Ain’t even interesting yet to fly.” 

“We’ve never done it that way.” 

“Yeah, I know. About time we started following the rules Jim Marshall and me wrote up back on the Big Blue Marble.” Gene leaned forward, watching Pete’s image straighten up on the monitor. “Here it comes.” 

“Gene, we’re going to do it your way. For now.” 

The aging astronaut slapped a hand hard on the console in front of him, then keyed his mike back on. “Hot damn, Houston. I like your style.” 

Gene?” Navy lieutenant Lisa Gold’s voice came from the rear of the LT-3’s crew compartment. “How many points does the microwave oven score?” 

“It don’t,” Gene said, floating in the commander’s sling seat; “considered a nonessential system.” 

“Well, then, you don’t get hot coffee.” 

Gene let out a low whistle. “So you got a negative function on the machine? Or a blown breaker?” 

“Let’s see,” Lisa said, scanning the labels in front of her. “I’ve still got a display here, this is circuit U-331 . . . breaker over here is still green over green. It’s the machine.” 

“You try whacking it?” 

“I slammed the door.” 

“Try cycling the door again, sweetheart. Gentle-like this time.” 

A few seconds later he heard the low hum of the microwave’s blower fan. When the machine beeped, Lisa came forward with a bulb of coffee, fitting it into the insulated carrier sleeve. Gene gave it a sip. 

“Ah—back in business. Three hours to landing and we got hot coffee again. Don’t get no better than this,” he said with some real satisfaction. 

“How did you know?” 

He shrugged. “I didn’t. But all microwave units have to come with safety interlocks—Federal law. Either something’s loose and banging it around might seat it, or it’s misaligning and only needs some tender care. I had a one-out-of-three chance of success.” 

“Don’t you mean fifty-fifty?” 

“Naw—there was a third option. Damn thing could’ve just been broke.” 

Lisa noticed him massaging his left hand again. “You okay, Gene?” 

“What? Oh sure. Looks like we’ve got a transmission coming in.” He flipped the switch and linked into the lunar communications net. “Go head, Flight Ops—this is Tycho.” 

“Lunar Transport Tycho... we, uh, would like to alter your inbound profile.” 

“Roger that. What’s your problem?” 

“We’ve got Lunar Transport Galileo on Landing Pad One. They’re in an unscheduled launch hold right now. We’d like you to make orbit instead of coming straight in and we’ll let you know when the range is clear.” 

“Tycho to make lunar orbit insertion—acknowledged. Keep us up to date, boys. Tycho out.” 

Lisa had drifted into the other sling seat. “I’m surprised you didn’t fight them. Pads Two and Three were clear.” 

“Naw,” Gene said, setting up the computer for the burn-to-orbit. “Pad Three’s not ideal for us with that extra cargo pod stuck on for this run. We’re better off on One or Two. But if One is blocked, that reduces us to one landing pad—no reason to limit our options if we don’t have to. Besides . . .” he paused to give Lisa a wink, “any time they order this old dog to fly more, I ain’t gonna complain.” 

She shook her head and turned away to run the navigation recheck routines. 

Halfway through their burn-to-orbit, Gene began to fret about the reserve nitrogen pressure. They needed the gas to keep the fuel and oxidizer lines pressurized. The reserve nitrogen was already on the list of recorded glitches from previous runs. Just now he’d tested the gas transfer system—three times—and got no response. 

“Negative function on reserve nitrogen valve. Switching on valve heaters,” he said. 

Lisa didn’t seem concerned in the other seat. These lunar transports lived their entire lives in vacuum and every valve could and did freeze up from time to time. 

So Gene tried the valve again after a minute. A red flag popped out on the overhead panel. Frowning, he reset the breaker and tried it again. Same result. 

Now Lisa noticed. “You’ve got a breaker tripped.” 

“Yeah. H-102,” Gene said. He reset the system for the backup circuit. A second red flag emerged. “And H-103.” 

“Is this a problem yet?” she asked. 

“It’s a known gripe.” 

But he hadn’t answered her question as he continued to troubleshoot. Then he went back to recalculating their fuel in the main tank. 

Seventy-five kilometers altitude,” Lisa called out, two minutes after they resumed their descent to the lunar surface. “Still on track.” 

“Flight Ops,” Gene said, beginning to get annoyed at the lack of a recent update. “What’s the status of Galileo’s launch?” 

“They’re just coming out of their hold.” 

“Ops—we’re on a descent here. D’ya think you could for once get my landing field cleared before you give us clearance for a deorbit burn?” 

“They’ll be gone in five minutes, Gene. Just hold your . . . Wait one, Tycho.” 

Gene and Lisa exchanged a quick look. 

“Setting up a return to orbit,” she said, rapidly typing in the commands. “Just in case.” 

“Negative,” Gene said. “Just get me a burn to bring us around one time to our current track at sixty kilometers.” 

“You got it.” 

“We’re already in our descent, this way we’ll pick her up where we left her off,” Gene explained. “If we have to.” 

“Lunar Transport Tycho, this is Flight Ops. We’ve had an incident on Landing Pad One—the swing arm operator accidentally made hard contact with Lunar Transport Galileo.” 

“LT-3, this is Houston Mission Control . . .” 

Gene stabbed at the radio keys. “Houston—stay outta this. We are in direct comm with our landing field. Flight Ops, we are setting up a once-around here and aborting this landing. 

Do you confirm?” 

“Roger, Tycho. Flight Ops confirms.” 

They once again resumed their descent after the ground crew moved the damaged Galileo off the pad. Gene stayed unusually quiet as he kept running their usable fuel numbers. Those two extra orbital maneuvers had cost them plenty and the nitrogen pressures still didn’t look good. 

“Two minutes to touchdown,” Lisa said. 

Gene heard her, but stared at the graphs in front of him. They didn’t have sixty seconds of fuel left. The computer said they did, but his calculations didn’t agree. They needed to pump from the Reserve B fuel tank to the main tank sometime in the next sixty seconds, except he couldn’t make it work. He glared at the two red-flagged circuit breakers still open on the overhead console. 

Hollis had logged this as a glitch. Surely the other pilot had tried the same things Gene had. But there wasn’t time to contact Hollis and find out what he’d 

done—Gene had waited too long. 

“Ninety seconds.” 

Gene knew he didn’t want to be the first Man in the Moon by crashing on his last landing. And he definitely didn’t want to crash into the base. The Lunar Transports were built with one thing in mind—lightweight functionality. The Tycho was just a cab on a frame with tanks, cargo blocks and engines. Lots of exposed plumbing for ease of maintenance. They couldn’t expect anything in the way of protection if the engine quit. Yet his real concern wasn’t with his own safety. If Tycho crashed, then with the Galileo damaged, the base would be down to just one lunar transport. And that was unacceptable. 

His backup systems all had backups—except there was only the one valve. How did this happen? 

He reset the breakers, tried the valve and they blew again. 

“Throttle back,” he advised Lisa. “We’re short on fuel and we’re gonna land hard.” 

Lisa was surprised and Gene knew he’d made a mistake keeping the information to himself. 

“I’m firing RCS,” she said, referring to their maneuvering thrusters. Anything which dropped their speed would help. 

Gene added, “And vector us into a more shallow approach.” 

Then he spied the valve heater switches. Had they been “on” the whole time? 

“Primary and secondary valve heaters to ‘off,’” he said, moving quickly. “Breakers reset. Pressurizing reserve fuel...now.” 

The first breaker tripped. He reset and tried again. The second breaker tripped. 

“Here goes nothin’,” Gene said softly and jammed his fingers against the breaker resets and held them in while he moved his left hand to actuate the valve. The fingers wanted to clench, but he willed them open anyway and held down the switch. 

“Fuel transfer,” Lisa said, more calmly than she felt. “Reserve B to main. Sixty seconds. Still on target.” 

As soon as they landed and safed the systems, Lisa turned to Gene and was about to chew him out when he handed her a piece of paper. “Get this to Jim Marshall, will you?” 

Then he unstrapped, got up and left. 

Nonplused, Lisa looked down at the drawing. It was a quick sketch of the Tycho with arrows pointing to the base of the cab—add explosive bolts—and to three of the RCS engines—attach RCS clusters 1-3-7 to cab. Include damn fuel tanks. Backup valve. A large note added ZERO SUM ON MASS, followed by a smaller one—provide autosep and diverting routines in software. 60 days to implement ALL CHANGES. 

In less than three minutes, while she was busy flying them in, Gene Fisher-Hall had come up with the rudimentary design of an emergency ejection system for the cab. The RCS engines didn’t have enough power to land the entire transport, so his solution was to chop off nearly all the mass. Lose the cargo, save the crew. It was brilliant to the point where Lisa wondered why it hadn’t been considered from the start. 

Lisa noticed an arrow which went off the page to the right. 

Turning the paper over, she saw Gene’s scrawled handwriting. We live, we learn. 

Gene sat in the locker room, flexing his left hand. His first two right fingers were bandaged from where the overheated breakers had burned the tips. He’d done the first aid himself—Dr. Hellebore would be by soon enough. Of that, Gene was sure. 

“Gene?” a crewman asked. “You got time to talk to an Earth reporter?” 

“Yeah,” Gene said in a tired voice. He wasn’t surprised some sharp-eyed space nut had figured out there was a story with today’s goings on. “Sure. All part of the service.” 

He got up and found a video terminal, then entered his access number. A fresh-faced twenty-something young man appeared and several seconds later smiled politely at Gene. It wasn’t one of the usual guys on the space beat. 

“Hello, Captain Fisher-Hall. My name is Trey Secord and I’m a reporter with the San Jose Mercury News.” 

Gene waited for the silence, then spoke. “Hi, Trey. You can call me Gene.” 

This reporter was smart enough to likewise wait out the three-second delay in communications. “Yes, Gene. I was wondering if, in light of your difficult mission today, you could comment on why you’re still an active duty astronaut after having been diagnosed with NODC some time ago?” 

Gene chewed on a lip for a moment, not expecting this topic, then cleared his throat. “Son—where’d you get that notion?” 

“Sir,” the young-looking reporter said, “it’s my job to track high-tech shipments and, well, a lot of diagnostic medical equipment’s been shipped to the Moon since you moved up there. And it’s not coming out of the regular NASA medical budget.” 

“So you decided to go on a fishing expedition with me?” 

“No, sir. Turns out it’s all funded with grant money. I’ve already got a source at NASA Administration. What I really wanted was confirmation.” 

When the interview was over, Gene stood still for a long minute. Then with a sigh he turned around, only to see Jim Marshall leaning on a locker. The architect of Man’s first permanent lunar colony didn’t come to NASA as a pilot. He was a spaceman’s engineer—a sturdy fireplug of a man, stiff salt-and-pepper remnants of hair only a few millimeters high rimming his lumpy skull, as unphotogenic as Gene could still be thought of as dashing. The two men were about the same age and had worked together for thirty years. Friendship didn’t even begin to describe the respect the two men felt for each other. 

“Why, if it ain’t the greatest engineer this side of heaven or hell,” Gene said, breaking into a big smile. “Other than Cammy, who actually built this barn. What brings you down here?” 

“I heard, of course,” Jim said in his heavy, gravelly voice. “Your big interview.” 

“Yeah, it’s a tough break. Sounds like Houston wants to ground me for sure this time.” 

“This shouldn’t have happened, Gene. I’ll drop down to Earth and get this straightened out.” 

“Nope,” Gene said, looking down towards the deck, scuffing one of the non-skid bumps with his boot. “I’m 

going.” 

“Gene—you haven’t been to Earth in . . .” 

“I gotta do this, Jim. You know it as much as I do.” 

A third man came in, leaning on the lockers on the other side. 

“Hey, Dickie Bird,” Gene said. 

“You all right?” Dr. Hellebore asked. 

“Now, don’t get me wrong, boys, I do appreciate this outpouring of affection and show of support. But I ain’t dead. Nothing’s happened.” 

Jim Marshall nodded towards Gene. “Our hero here thinks he’s going to drop on Houston and demand his job back.” 

“I ain’t suspended either ...yet,” Gene admitted. 

“You haven’t been to Earth . . .” Hellebore began. 

“Why,” Gene said, interrupting, “is everyone so damned hot to act like I ain’t been keeping my log book up to date? Not only do I know exactly when I was last on Earth, but I’ve also been maintaining my twenty minutes of exercise at one-point-five G’s in the centrifuge every damn day. Now, Dick, are you coming with me or not?” 

Dr. Hellebore didn’t always make his daily centrifuge, but he had been to Earth every four or five months, if only to make sure he hadn’t burned his bridges back to home. “Sure, Gene. I’m with you.” 

“Good. Now let’s go rustle us up a flight.” 

“You know you can’t fly it.” 

“Jim—I ain’t stupid. Even if I’m not officially suspended, I’ll be a good little passenger. Now if you’ll excuse me—I gotta pack.” Gene strode out of the locker, looking like a man full of confidence without any worries. 

Jim Marshall stood there and shook his head. “Can you believe that sonofabitch?” 

“Every day’s a dream,” Hellebore said. “Excuse me—I think I’ve been given my orders to pack.” 

The landing of shuttles at Cape Canaveral carrying men and women from the Moon and the near space stations had become as routine as NASA could make it. After the tractor snagged the front landing gear and sped them to the terminal area, crew handlers came in with two wheelchairs for the long-term lunar residents. Dr. Hellebore was grateful for the assist, but he was surprised—then impressed—by the ironman performance of Gene Fisher-Hall, who walked off the shuttle under his own power. 

“Need you to set up an appointment in Houston,” Gene told the Shuttle Gate Officer, picking up one of the standard clipboards which lined the desk area. “Morning would be good. Maybe ten-hundred hours local. And I need a pool unit—is this one fully charged and raring to go?” 

“Sure thing, Gene.” 

“Gene,” Hellebore said, pushing himself over. “I can’t sanction you for flight.” He glanced outside at the flight line row of white NASA T-600A supersonic training jets available for the astronauts’ use, not able to remember the last time he had seen Gene log jet time. 

“Not your call,” Gene said, reaching into a zippered pocket on his flight suit for something he had stashed just for this moment. “Last I checked you were just a flight surgeon, Dick. Puts you in charge of determining my flight status for airplanes, shuttles and spacecraft. This here card is a perfectly valid State of Texas grade-A adult vehicular driver’s license. And what I’ve jest signed for is a NASA pool car. Now I’ve got some driving to do, Dickie Bird—you ready to go?” 

“You’re going to drive from the Cape to Houston?” Hellebore asked with some amusement. 

“Sure thing.” 

“This I cannot miss.” 

As Dr. Hellebore settled into the right-hand seat of the NASA GM Senstra sedan, Gene Fisher-Hall took the one wheelchair, instantly collapsed it, then stowed it in the back. His movements were deliberate and considered at all times. Training for gravity was one thing—falling in the Earth’s gravity, six times that of the Moon, was something entirely different. 

“What are you doing, Dickie?” Gene asked, as he slung himself down into the seat. 

“I’m calling up the map display.” 

“Do you think that an expert pilot and NASA’s finest astronaut does not know how to get from Merritt Island to Houston?” 

“I, uh ...” 

“Oh ye of little faith,” Gene said, shaking his head and sighing. He spent a moment fiddling with something under the dashboard, then tossed a small black module into Hellebore’s lap. Slipping on the standard restraint harness, he logged in, slammed the door and then tore out of the parking spot. 

“Uh . . . what’s this?” Hellebore asked, after struggling into his own harness and picking up the module. 

“Speed limiter,” Gene replied. “One piece of equipment we don’t need on this run.” 

“NASA logs every drive,” Hellebore warned. 

“Not if you logout the monitor function.” 

The four windows rolled down at Gene’s command as they sped for the highway. On Earth you could enjoy the outside air—and he intended to. 

By the time they made their second stop near Pensacola, Dr. Hellebore had real respect for Gene’s skill as a pilot/driver. The quick-charge batteries required twenty minutes or so to recharge, a trick which forced drivers to break and rest on long trips, so Gene methodically ate and drank, renewing his own body at their first break, and then pushed the car faster and further than expected to their second. 

“You’ve been averaging about 180 kph,” Hellebore said, sitting at an outdoor table, picking at some fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy he’d picked up at the quick-mart kiosk. He knew it was all bad for him, but it was just this time and it’d smelled so damned good. “That’s only about thirty above the speed limit.” 

“Speed limits are for ordinary drivers,” Gene said. “I am a trained professional. Besides . . .” he paused to take another bite of his hamburger, “. . . you might’ve noticed we got passed by one hundred and thirty other cars, so far.” 

“No. I didn’t notice.” 

“Ain’t no one getting tickets today. I don’t think anyone in America can stand this one-fifty speed limit.” 

Hellebore sat and watched his friend for another minute. “I didn’t think we’d make it this far on that second charge.” 

“Ye of little faith,” Gene said again. It was rapidly becoming his mantra on this road trip. “Besides, I spent most of the last hour drafting off that frozen chicken strips truck. We got further than the book says, that’s for sure.” 

The doctor set aside his dinner and slowly made his way back up to standing. 

“You okay there, Dickie Bird?” Gene said, concern creeping into his voice. 

“Yeah. It always takes me a couple of hours to get my Earth legs back.” 

“You should do more time in the centrifuge. Any damn old space doctor will tell you that,” Gene teased. 

Hellebore ignored the taunt. “So this is Pensacola.” 

“Outskirts—yeah.” 

“There’s a Navy air base . . . ?” 

“Pensacola Naval Air Station.” Gene nodded towards the south. “It’s about ten . . . twenty klicks from here, on the coast. Been there many times when I was flying jets.” 

“Miss it?” 

“What? You trying to be my shrink now?” Gene asked. He managed a smile to take the edge off the gibe. 

“No—just making conversation.” 

Gene finished the last of his coffee. “I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. And fighting to keep doing it.” 

“Amen to that.” 

Gene grinned at the doctor. “Glad you’re on my side, Dickie. Let’s hit that old road and see if it bounces.” 

At midnight they recharged at a huge truck and auto stop near Lafayette, Louisiana. 

“Say,” the young woman running the charging station said with some awe. “Ain’t you Gene Fisher-Hall, the astronaut?” 

“Pretty good guess,” Gene said in mock seriousness. “What tipped you off? The NASA decals on the car? Or the name on my flight suit?” He flashed her a big grin and it was clear she didn’t mind getting joshed. 

“Man, the news nets are full of stuff about you getting fired.” 

“I ain’t been fired from anything in my life, miss.” 

“But didn’t they ground you? Aren’t you heading to Houston to demand your job back? That’s what the nets say.” 

“I wouldn’t trust those reporter types too far with the truth,” Gene said. “They’re the ones who helped cause this little dust up. Nope, I’m heading to Houston to file some paperwork. Someone released my medical records without my say-so—and that’s a Federal felony. Someone is gonna go to jail for this.” 

“Really?” The young woman’s eyes went wide. None of the wild speculations she had been reading focused on this story. 

“You bet. See—some things are public records. Like the fact that I was on that transport back to Earth this morning. Some things are not. You better pray your bosses don’t ever get to smear your good name with what’s in your medical files, let me tell you.” 

“Yeah.” 

The counter dinged and Gene signed for the charge. “It’ll all be fixed up straight by, oh, ten in the AM Houston time. You take care now, y’ hear?” And he waved to the young woman as he stepped back into the car. 

Hellebore, already strapped in, was mystified. “Gene—what the hell are you doing? You can’t talk to the press like that!” 

Gene winked at his friend as he settled back into his seat. “Now you know very well I weren’t talking to no press. Jest talking to a young lady who’s a big fan of the space program.” 

“But she’s going to call someone.” 

As they began to move back toward the I-10, Gene tilted his head and gave a little shrug. “I suppose she jest might at that. It’s a free country, I guess. No telling what that young lady might do.” 

Dr. Hellebore could only sit and shake his head as they accelerated back up to 180 kph and settled in behind another speeding truck. 

Houston was hot and muggy—no change there. After a quick five hours’ rest in a cheap but clean hotel he knew on the road looping around the city, Gene parked the car at the Johnson Space Flight Center in a spot reserved for astronauts and not where pool cars were supposed to go. Then he made a show of getting out the wheelchair. 

“Gene, I can probably walk now,” Hellebore protested. 

“You don’t know nothing about showmanship, my friend,” Gene said. “I’m here to save my career, and I’ll use whatever’s available.” 

“But I have a reputation . . .” 

“Not one of those reporters or cameramen over there with the long telephoto lenses gives a damn about your reputation, Dickie Bird. That’s all there is to it. So get in and let old iron horse Gene Fisher-Hall push you around the farm.” 

Gene.” 

“Herb.” 

The two men stared each other down for nearly a minute. The veteran and crafty pilot versus the consummate political administrator. Finally Assistant NASA Director Herb Flowers looked away and slapped a copy of a newspaper onto the desk between them. 

“You shouldn’t have gone to the press.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“A technicality.” 

“No,” Gene said slowly. “A technicality means I actually did something wrong. Near as I can tell, I’m not the one with felony charges hanging over my head. Now you—or at least someone in your office—that’s a different matter.” 

“Okay, Gene. Direct as usual. What do you want?” 

“I want to see those charges filed. I want to see someone bounced outta here and into the hoosegow.” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“It is that simple, Herb. Even if it’s you. But . . .” Gene started to say, before the administrator could protest, “I’m pretty sure you ain’t so stupid as to call a reporter yourself. So you must’ve gotten one of your toadies to do it for you. Now if you want the professional NASA pilot corps to trust you in the future—or at least pretend to trust you—you’d better make sure someone falls on their sword.” 

“In exchange for what?” 

“In exchange for nothing,” Gene said succinctly. “See, Herb, you think this is some sort of game of give and take. It ain’t. Nothing’s changed between me and my doc, and I’m running out of Lunar Flight Ops and not Houston Mission Control these days.” 

“You’re here now. I could keep you here.” 

“Oh, well. Your professional funeral there,” Gene said with real hard-edged sarcasm. “How many reporters you think are out there this morning?” 

“Whom you called.” 

“I called nobody, Herb—and you’re avoidin’ my question.” 

“I’ve no obligation to fly you back and forth to the Moon whenever you want. This isn’t some tourist shuttle.” 

“I’m a resident of the Moon. I’m talking about going home—you can’t keep me here against my will.” 

“Then you’re using an illegal driver’s license—I should have you arrested.” 

“Uh-uh,” Gene said, waggling a finger at his boss. “UN’s declared the Moon is international territory, same as if I were an American living abroad in Spain. I get to keep that Texas license. You lose again. 

“You sure you don’t want me to count those reporters out there again?” 

Ready to head back to the Moon, Dickie Bird? Or do you need to stop somewhere here in Houston before we go?” Gene said when he got back to reception. 

“It’s over?” Dr. Hellebore asked. He had been standing, stretching his legs at least, and flipping through a few magazines while waiting to be called in. 

Now he understood about Gene’s show of strength. “Of course it’s over.” 

“You doubted me.” Gene stared in mock surprise at the doctor. “After all we’ve been through—you didn’t think I had a prayer going into that meeting. I’m crushed, Dickie Bird, just crushed.” 

“I didn’t know,” Hellebore admitted. “The big cheeses can pretty much do what they want.” 

“Ah,” Gene said, holding up a finger. “That’s where you’re wrong. Man like Herb Flowers is evenmore dependent on what others think than you or me.” 

With his zero-G and lunar flight status no longer in question, Gene would usually have insisted on piloting. But with a glut of personnel returning from Earth, he opted to again ride the transport as a passenger. He regaled the younger astronauts with stories which he swore were “mostly true” and even the good Dr. Hellebore, who didn’t like space travel all that much, seemed in good spirits. 

Claiming a back seat in the cockpit for the landing, for once Gene could sightsee on the way down rather than dance between graphs, gauges and sighting down the alignment reticle. 

“Target in sight,” the pilot announced, and indeed it was. 

Gene marveled at how much the lunar base had expanded. The curved expanse of the two main domes dominated the approach, of course, but he was intrigued to see signs of life—construction equipment building the next cluster of structures and large wheeled transports moving around outside. One spacesuited figure atop the nearest crater wall waved. 

“It’s a goddamned Norman Rockwell painting,” Gene said in awe. 

“What was that, Gene?” 

“Nothin’. Jest good to be home, that’s all.” 

Eighteen months later, even after they had five lunar transports in regular service, Gene kept volunteering to ride the sometimes balky LT-3 Tycho. “It might’ve tried to bite me once,” he told anyone who asked, “but I think I’ve showed her who’s boss on this ol’ moon.” 

Today’s ride promised another routine mission, except Gene understood how there was nothing routine about space travel. Still, he was taken aback when his left hand seized up and wouldn’t budge some ten minutes prior to launch from Pad Two. Usually his NODC didn’t manifest itself until hours or days into a mission. He went to toggle his radio link to put a call into Hellebore when he found his right hand had seized as well. 

Gene Fisher-Hall was many things. High-school baseball star, Navy aviator, NASA pilot-astronaut and senior amongst his peers. As he himself said, it was bad combination which tended towards professional arrogance. But he was not a stupid man. 

“Uh, Flight Ops? This is Gene,” he said in his casually clear, but folksy voice. “I’d like to declare a Hold to this count.” 

Barbara Gao, the civilian pilot sitting in the number two seat, stopped doing her checklist and turned to look at Gene. She raised an eyebrow and only got the usual wink from Gene. 

“Lunar Transport Tycho . . . holding at T-minus nine minutes thirty-two seconds,” came the immediate reply. “What’s up, Gene?” 

“I’m declaring a system failure on the number one pilot,” Gene said. He smiled as his right hand finally began to respond to the commands from his brain. Too late—but probably just in time, he figured. “I think that’s it for the old man. Barb’s got the checklist until Lisa finishes reading the newspaper and realizes she’s no longer backup pilot for this milk run.” 

He released his strap restraints one-handed and, reaching up with the same hand, grabbed the overhead sissy bar and pulled himself out of the seat. 

“Barb—you’d better safe my board. I’m not sure I can hit the right control.” 

“Gene?” 

With some sadness, he reached up to the flap “above his heart” on his flight suit and yanked the Velcro-backed gold astronaut’s wings with his right hand, looked at the worn metal, polished it once against his chest, then tossed the wings onto the pilot’s seat he’d just vacated. 

“You’re retiring?” Barbara asked in amazement. 

“Can’t fly if your hands seize up before the day’s even begun. I’ve never put a mission in danger—and I ain’t starting today. Don’t give Lisa too hard a time. She didn’t kick your dog today.” 

By the time Gene Fisher-Hall had gathered up the rest of his space gear and his flight pack, the ground crew had re-extended the flexible docking arm. Still letting his left arm hang at his side, useless, Gene checked for pressure balance on both sides, then unlocked the hatch with his right hand and stood back to let the crew on the other side open it the rest of the way. 

“See ya, kid,” he called back to Barbara. “Have a nice flight.” 

I need you to promise me something,” Hellebore began. 

“Anything . . . assuming I’m capable of it,” Gene said. He tried to smile at the doctor—and at Jim Marshall lurking in the background—but the truth was, by the time he’d made it back to the domes, he’d felt like crap. The doctor’s short-term medications didn’t make him feel much better. He didn’t want to admit quite yet that giving up his flight status made his disease more formidable. 

“Don’t do anything foolish. No taking any long walks out a short airlock, with or without a suit.” 

Gene tried to chuckle, but the gesture collapsed into another coughing fit. The doctor put an arm around the old man to steady him, and when he finally stopped, gave him a water bulb to suck on. 

“Thanks, old friend.” 

“Just doing my job,” Hellebore said, trying to sound innocent and folksy like Gene. It didn’t come off nearly so well. 

“Don’t worry, Dickie Bird,” Gene finally managed to say. “I ain’t gonna ruin your pet science project. Hell—I’ve been the star of it for the last couple of years, the least I should do is stick it out and see how it ends.” 

Jim Marshall hung around while the doctor ran his final checks and left, before swinging his short legs around the desk to sit on the end of it. “How you doing, Gene?” 

“I’d be lying if I said I was wonderful,” Gene admitted. “But then, I’ve never lied to you, old friend.” 

“I know. Don’t think I don’t know,” Jim said with some admiring sadness. “That took some guts out there on the launch pad today.” 

“Well, technically—it’s not really a launch pad . . .” 

“No jokes, Gene.” 

The old pilot looked down and flexed his now behaving left hand. “I’m a professional, Jim. Doesn’t take guts or need praising. I made you and Dickie Bird a promise—and I kept it. Everything else is just horsecrap.” He paused to clear his throat, a deep sort of rumble, then coughed once. 

“What about this cough? This new?” 

“It’s nothing,” Gene said. When he looked up and saw Jim’s concern, he realized he had to explain himself. “No, really. It’s this stuff the quack gave me. Real horse pills and they irritate like hell on the way down. Then they dry you up. I read up on all this stuff years ago. This ain’t flight medication, Jim. This is the real deal stuff, for ground time only. We moved into a new phase with this one today.” 

“Well other than falling apart on us a quarter of a million miles from a real doctor, how do you feel?” 

“I’m okay, Jim. Really.” 

“Because I’m not getting any younger either. It’s about time I had a proper assistant administrator to help run this place.” 

“Thought you’d never ask.” 

“Oh, you figured you’d be on the short list, Gene?” 

“You old horse thief, everyone back home just thinks you designed this whole base, popping the plans fully formed out of your forehead like you were Zeus or some other damned engineering god. You and me—we know the truth.” 

Jim ignored the taunt. “Report on Monday?” 

“Hell, I’ll report tomorrow.” 

“Not today?” Jim asked, testing his old friend. 

“Naw,” Gene said, standing up and straightening his flight suit. “I think I once wrote a rule that said if you’re the system failure which caused a launch abort—you get the rest of the day off.” 

“The launch wasn’t an abort. They took it out of the hold twenty minutes ago and they’re on their way.” 

“See? They didn’t need me today anyway.” Gene clapped his left hand good-naturedly on Jim Marshall’s back. 

Eight new lunar base specialists gathered in the penthouse conference room under the top of Dome 1. They’d been escorted from the landing terminal and left here to stand around waiting for something to happen. 

Doug nudged Steve and pointed towards the far open hatch twenty feet away. “Isn’t that Gene Fisher-Hall?” 

“Yup. The new assistant administrator. Hear he’s hell on wheels.” 

“What’s he doing?” 

The two men stared and tried to make out what the old man was doing. He seemed to be busily pulling cables out of a junction box, finally finding the cable group he wanted and after twisting off a quick-connect fitting, started attaching some sort of a jumper wire. 

“It looks like he’s .. .overriding. .. ?” 

Gene looked up from his handiwork and gave them a sly smile. The sliding hatch between them closed just as an emergency alarm went off. The eight newbies all looked wide-eyed at each other. 

“That’s a vacuum breach!” Sarah shouted. Steve tore off for the hatch, but even as he began to tap in emergency access codes, he could see Gene’s smile spread from underneath his mustache, and knew he wouldn’t be able to get this hatch open in time. 

“What’s the game here?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Well, someone do something!” 

Doug picked up a phone, trying to get someone at Base Ops—but got no answer. Steve ran towards the other hatch and tried to get it open. When it wouldn’t budge, he pounded on the panel cover next to the latch, trying to pop it open and gain access to the control wires inside. 

“You guys are all incompetents.” 

The newbies turned to see Gene on their side of the first hatch. He took several large, loping steps and then, with an effortless grace, launched himself up to the top of the dome. In the reduced gravity of the Moon it was surprisingly balletic and he timed it to reach his apex exactly at the last handhold. By then the others noticed the hissing sound above their heads and watched as Gene closed the louvers on the vacuum line. The alarms silenced as well. 

“At least you had an idea,” Gene said, looking over at Sarah. The others saw her clinging on the handholds halfway up the dome, one of the emergency foam sealers slung across her back. Then Gene dropped slowly and easily back to the floor. “Come on, Sarah Rausch. It ain’t really a twelve-foot drop. At least it don’t feel like one. Just divide by six in your head, let go and fall.” 

Reluctantly Sarah let herself hang down, hesitated, then dropped. 

“Y’all have forgotten you’re on the Moon,” Gene said, once Sarah rejoined the group. “And I’m not jest talking about the gravity. I set off a vacuum alert and you idiots stood around like you expected someone else to fix it. I got news for you—you’ve been through training back on Earth and now you’re here. So you are the guys expected to fix it.” 

He walked over to an emergency locker and popped the door open. 

“Not one of you thought to get into an emergency suit. Let me clue you in. That ain’t Houston or Huntsville outside these walls either.” Gene glared at each of the eight, stopping with Sarah. “You look like you got a question.” 

“Sir—why is there a vacuum line twelve feet off the floor?” 

Gene chuckled before answering. “Good question. It’s so y’all can’t reach it during your first safety test on the Moon. I had it put in real special-like. It’s actually attached to that valve station down yonder and we physically disconnect the sucker when we aren’t harassing newbies.” 

Then Gene turned and strode out of the room, leaving the eight still standing there waiting for something to happen. 

“Jesus—what was that?” 

“That was your new best friend on the Moon,” a voice said from the other hatch and they all turned to see Jim Marshall advancing on them. “Don’t ever forget it.” 

The service was long over and the tech crews were packing up the cameras. Everyone else was gone, but still Dr. Hellebore stayed on. At fifty-eight months and counting, the doctor counted himself an old hand on “the base Jim Marshall built,” soon to be renamed Fisher-Hall Base. It only took an involuntary glance at his wrist to know he still had over two hours of 02 left before he needed replenishment. Plenty of time to pay his respects—and remember. 

And there were so many stories. Even today, pilots and engineers still argued about Gene’s fuel problems with Lunar Transport Tycho and the finger pointing which had gone on after they’d torn the system apart. Hellebore let such talk wash over him—he wasn’t really a technical space geek anyway. Besides, even here on the Moon the stories were changing, getting bigger than the old man had been. Now that he was dead, they’d get bigger still. 

Gene, already a public hero back on Earth, lasted three more years and sixty-two transport runs after NASA went public with his condition. At the end he became the most famous astronaut ever—more famous than Neil Armstrong with his one step or John Glenn and his one-and-a-half missions, as Gene would say. 

He had been on the job right up to the end. Hellebore found him at the office, with one last correction noted on a job order, a scrawled signature, then a command running on the screen to back up his computer. All apparently before leaning back in his chair and fading away. Peacefully. Professional to the end. Doing what he loved. 

Gene had been right about so many things. Man now lived on the Moon all because Man nowdied on the Moon. And no, he hadn’t been the first. But as the first permanent citizen of the Moon and the first to die due to natural causes and not accident, Gene would be the first buried in the gray regolith of the Moon. And most definitely he had been right about the response of the people of America and the rest of the world—the funeral had been beamed back to Earth for live midday coverage in America, evening in Europe, early morning in Japan. The audience worldwide was estimated at over three billion. 

A blip sounding in Hellebore’s ear gently reminded him it was time to board the rover and make it back to the main Armstrong Dome. He had a baby to deliver at 1800 hours—his third this month and the only boy in this lot. The NASA boys and girls up here, as Gene had called them, had certainly taken to the directive allowing children on the Moon. The doctor was pretty sure the parents would name their new son Gene. Gene Ramos Davies. It seemed fitting. 

A new kind of human being was growing up here. In his bad Latin, Gene Fisher-Hall called themHomo lunaris. A true Man on the Moon, he’d said. Hellebore saluted his old friend and finally turned to go, only to discover he wasn’t alone. Another spacesuited figure stood halfway to the rover. The computer display over Hellebore’s right eye identified him as FLOWERS, HERB. The doctor had known the NASA administrator made the flight up to the Moon for the funeral, but what was the deal with standing out on the lunar soil in hard vacuum all alone like this, after the tech crews left? 

“Herb? Are you all right?” 

“Yes, doctor. I’m fine,” Herb said. “I didn’t want to intrude.” 

“I meant being out here. It’s not like you’ve trained for this.” 

“No,” Herb said, then laughed. “Noooo, I can’t say I ever expected to set foot on the Moon in my lifetime.” 

“Gene would’ve been impressed.” 

“Gene Fisher-Hall would’ve called me a damned fool.” 

“Sure. Technically you’re a newbie and I don’t see your buddy,” Hellebore said, catching up to Herb. “But still you made it up here and that would’ve counted to the old man.” 

“Someone had to come,” Herb said. “Maybe in another ten years it might’ve been the president. This time NASA could spare its assistant director.” 

The two men started walking toward the rover. 

“How long are you up for?” 

“Three days. One for the funeral. One for the dedication. One for the inevitable meetings as we figure out where we go from here.” 

“We build. We grow. We continue to head on out,” Hellebore said. 

“The president wants to know if we’re ready to finally announce the Mars Initiative. He expects a report on his desk the minute I get back. It’s not too soon to be thinking about the State of the Union speech.” 

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Hellebore admitted. “I’ve got my hands full with my medical practice here.” 

“You aren’t coming home again, are you?” 

“This is home, I think,” the doctor said, stopping to look out along the bumpy gray horizon, then back at the domes. “But Gene did convince me to keep logging my time on the centrifuge.” 

“Yeah,” Herb said. “You never know when you might have to storm into my office and threaten me.” 

They walked the rest of the way to the rover in silence, but Herb put a glove on Hellebore’s sleeve before they boarded. 

“Gene and I were never friends. I doubt we would be either. It’s not my job to make friends with the astronauts or the ground crews. Or the vendors and the engineers,” Herb said. “And I’ll never make director. I guess I’m too good at what I do.” 

“I won’t say that Gene respected you,” Hellebore said, “because I don’t know. But I think he understood where your job fit in the whole puzzle.” 

“I’ve got nothing but retirement to look forward to in Houston,” Herb said. “This base is growing. You’re going to need someone to fight with the politicians in Houston and Washington. Someone who can speak their budgetary bureaucratic lingo.” 

“Are you volunteering to come up here? To stay?” 

“I’m thinking about it. Don’t be so surprised. I’ve been an armchair space geek for most of my life. Gene’s gone. Jim needs a real assistant administrator now.” 

Gene would’ve laughed. Dr. Hellebore was sure of it. But he didn’t really feel like laughing—not yet. 

“Herb, stop by my office tomorrow. After the show is over. We’ll set you up for a proper physical.” The beeping returned to Hellebore’s ear. “Now we have to go.” 

“You have an appointment?” 

“Yes,” Hellebore said, settling into the driver’s seat, clearing the safety check and activating their transponder. “As Gene would’ve said, we may have found intelligent life on the Moon.” 

The rover responded to Hellebore’s commands and they headed towards Fisher-Hall Base. 

“I don’t suppose they’re going to name the kid after Gene, are they?” 

Dr. Hellebore hadn’t mentioned what his appointment was, but as usual, Herb Flowers had his hands in everything. 

“Actually, Herb, they are.” 

“Unbelievable,” Herb replied. “And you said there was intelligent life on the Moon.” 

This was most definitely a new side to the Assistant Director, Hellebore thought. Maybe being off-world agreed with the man. “You might appreciate this, Herb. Gene told me a joke a couple of months ago and said to save it for today. For someone who would really appreciate it.” 

“Oh? Let’s hear it.” 

“Knock-knock.” 

Reluctantly Herb allowed himself to follow the standard format. “Who’s there?” 

“Gene.” 

“Gene who?” 

“Damn, boy,” Hellebore said in his best imitation of the pilot’s twang, “y’all up there forget about me already?” 

Though neither could see through the gold sunshield of the other’s helmet, both men were smiling as they drove on, the domes getting bigger and bigger. One last joke with Gene out on the surface of the Moon. His moon. What could be more fitting from the first Man in the Moon?