Dumont, 261 miles in diameter, is the third largest crater on the visible face of the Moon, and lies in the middle of the Southern Highlands. It is ancient; eons of vulcanism and bombardment from space have scarred its walls and pockmarked its floor. But since the last era of crater formation, when the debris from the asteroid belt was still battering the inner planets, it had known peace for half a billion years.720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0st3h3Sdu9
Now there were new, strange stirrings on and below its surface, for here Man was establishing his first permanent bridgehead on the Moon. Dumont Base could, in an emergency, be entirely self-sufficient. All the needs of life were produced from the local rocks---after they had been crushed, heated, and chemically processed. Hydrogen, oxygen; carbon, nitrogen, phosphorous---all these, and most of the other elements, could be found inside the Moon, provided one knew where to look for them. The Base was a closed system, like a tiny working model of Earth itself, recycling all the chemicals of life. The atmosphere was purified in a vast estufa---a large, circular room buried just below the lunar surface. Under blazing lamps by night, and filtered sunlight by day, acres of stubby green plants grew in a warm, moist atmosphere. They were special mutations, designed for the express purpose of replenishing the air with oxygen, and providing food as a by-product. More food was produced by chemical processing systems and algae culture. Although the green merda circulating through yards of transparent plastic tubes would barely have appealed to a gourmet, the biochemists could convert it into steaks and chops only an expert could distinguish from the real thing.
The 11,000 men and 600 women who made up the personnel of the Base were all highly trained scientists or technicians, carefully selected before they had left Earth. Though lunar living was now virtually free from the hardships, disadvantages, and occasional dangers of the prewar days, it was still psychologically demanding, and not for those who suffered from claustrophobia. Since it was expensive and time-consuming to cut a big underground base out of solid rock or compacted lava, the standard one-man placacasa was a room only about 6 feet X 10 feet X 8 feet.
Each room was attractively furnished and looked very much like a good hotel suite, with convertible sofa, TV, small hi-fi set, and vision-phone. Moreover, by a simple trick of interior decoration, the one unbroken wall could be converted by the flip of a switch into a convincing terrestrial landscape. There was a choice of eight views. This touch of luxury was typical of the Base, though it was sometimes tough to explain its necessity to the people back on Earth. Every man and woman in Dumont had coast a hundred thousand cruzeiros in training, transport and housing; it was worth a little extra to maintain their peace of mind. This wasn't art for the sake of art, but rather art for sanity's sake.
One of the attractions of life in the base---and on the Moon as a whole---was no doubt the low gravity, which produced a sense of general well-being. However, this had its dangers, and it was several weeks before an emigrant from Earth could adapt to it. On the Moon, the human body had to learn a whole new set of reflexes. It had, for the first time, to distinguish between mass and weight.
A man who weighed 180 pounds on Earth might be delighted to discover that he weighed only 30 pounds on the Moon. So long as he moved in a straight line at a uniform speed, he felt a wonderful sense of buoyancy. But as soon as he attempted to change course, to turn corners, or to stop suddenly---then he would find that his full 180 lbs. of mass/inertia was still there. For that was fixed and unalterable---the same on Earth, Moon, Sun, or in free space. Before one could be properly adapted to lunar life, therefore, it was vital to learn that all objects were now six times as sluggish as their mere weight would suggest. It was a lesson usually driven home by numerous collisions and hard knocks, and old homens da lua kept their distance from newcomers until they were acclimatized.
With its complex of workshops, offices, storerooms, computer center, generators, garage, kitchen, laboratories, and food-processing plant. Dumont Base was a miniature world unto itself. And, ironically, many of the skills that had been used to build this underground empire had been developed during the Third World War.
Any man who had ever worked in a hardened missile site would have felt at home in Durant. Here on the Moon were the same arts and hardware of underground living, and of protection against a hostile environment; but here they had been turned to the purposes of peace.
After 10,000 years, man had at last found something as exciting as war. Unfortunately, even after the near destruction of the world by a superpower nuclear exchange, some nations had yet to realize that fact.
The mountains that had been prominent just before landing had mysteriously vanished, hidden from sight below the steeply curving lunar horizon. Around the spacecraft was a flat, gray plain; brilliantly lit by the slanting earthlight. Although the sky was, naturally, totally black, only the brighter stars and planets could be seen, unless the eyes were shielded from the surface glare.
Several very odd vehicles were rolling up to the Aries-1B spaceship---cranes, hoists, servicing trucks---some automatic, some operated by a driver in a little pressure cabin. Most of them moved on balloon tires, for this smooth, level plain posed no transportation difficulties; but one tanker rolled on the peculiar flex-wheels which had proved one of the best all-purpose ways of getting around on the Moon. A series of flat plates arranged in a circle, each plate independently mounted and sprung, the flex-wheel had many of the advantages of the caterpillar track from which it had evolved. It would adapt its shape and diameter to the terrain over which it was moving, and, unlike a caterpillar track, would continue to function even if a few sections were missing.
A little bus with an extension tube like a stubby elephant trunk was now nuzzling affectionately up against the spacecraft. A few seconds later, there were bangings and bumpings from outside, followed by the sound of hissing air as connections were made and pressure was equalized.
The inner door of the airlock opened, and the welcoming committee entered.
It was led by Virgílio Halvorsen, the Administrator of the Lunar Province---which meant not only the Base but also any exploring parties that operated from it.720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLsdWb1uTRj
With him was his Chief Scientist, Dr. Matias Michaels, a grizzled little geophysicist whom Marshall knew from previous visits, and six senior scientists and executives. They greeted him with respectful relief; from the Administrator on down, it was obvious that they looked forward to a chance of unloading some of their worries.
"Very pleased to have you with us, Dr. Marshall," said Halvorson. "Did you have a nice trip?"
"Excellent," Marshall answered. "Still, it could've been better. The crew took pretty good care of me." He exchanged his usual small talk that courtesy demanded while the bus rolled away from the spacecraft; by unspoken agreement, nobody mentioned the reason for his visit. After traveling 1000 feet from the landing site, the bus came to a large sign that read:
WELCOME TO DUMONT BASE
Franchised by the Viagens Interplanetarias.
2095
It then dived into a cutting which took it quickly below ground level. A massive door opened ahead, then closed behind them. This happened again, and yet a third time. When the last door had closed, there was a great roaring of air, and they were back in atmosphere once more, in the shirt-sleeve environment of the Base.
After a brief walk through a tunnel packed with pipes and cables, and echoing hollowly with rhythmic thumpings and throbbings, they arrived in executive territory, and Marshall found himself back in the familiar environment of typewriters, office computers, girl assistants, wall charts, and ringing telephones. As they paused outside the door labeled ADMINISTRATOR, Halvorsen said diplomatically: "Dr. Marshall and I will be along to the briefing room in two minutes."
The others nodded, made agreeable sounds, and drifted off down the corridor. But before Halvorsen could usher Marshall into his office, there was an interruption. The door opened and a small figure hurled itself at the Administrator.
"Papa! You've been Topside! And you promised to take me!"
"Now, Olga," said Halvorsen, with exasperated tenderness, "I only said I'd take you if I could. But I've been very busy meeting Dr. Marshall. Shake hands with him---he's just come from Earth."
The little girl---Marshall judged that she was about eight--extended a limp hand. Her face was vaguely familiar, and Marshall suddenly became aware that the Administrator was looking at him with a quizzical smile. With a shock of recollection, he understood why.
"Unbelievable!" he exclaimed. "When I was here last she was just a baby!"
"She had her 4th birthday last week," Halvorsen proudly answered. "Children grow fast in this low gravity. But they don't age so quickly---they'll live longer than we do."
Marshall stared in fascination at the self-assured little lady, noting the graceful carriage and the unusually delicate bone structure. "It's nice to meet you again, Olga," he said. Then something---maybe sheer curiosity, maybe politeness---impelled him to add: "Would you like to go to Earth?"
Her eyes widened with shock; then she shook her head.
"It's a nasty place; you hurt yourself when you fall down. Besides, there are too many people."
So here, Marshall told himself, is the first generation of the Spaceborn; there would be more of them in the years to come. Though there was sadness in this thought, there was also a great hope. When Earth was tamed and tranquil, and maybe a little tired, there would still be scope for those who loved freedom, for the tough pioneers, the restless adventurers. But their tools would not be machete and gun and canoe and horse; they would be nuclear power plant and plasma drive and hydroponic farm. The time was fast coming when Earth, like all mothers, must say goodbye to her children.720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmlOkwAVjv5
With a mixture of threats and promises, Halvorsen managed to evict his determined offspring and led Marshall into the office. The Administrator's suite was only about 15 feet square, but it managed to contain all the fittings and status symbols of the typical $50,000 a year head of a department. Signed photographs of important politicians--including the President of Brazil and the Secretary General of the United Nations--adorned one wall, while signed photos of celebrated astronautas covered most of another.720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFtn60xtDph
Marshall sank into a comfortable leather chair and was given a glass of "sherry," courtesy of the lunar biochemical labs. "Como tá indo, Virgilio?" Marshall asked, sipping the drink cautiously, then with approval.720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeaHs7l5M6y
"It's not too bad," Halvorsen replied. "But there's something you'd better know before you go in there."
"What?"
Halvorsen sighed. "I guess you could call it a morale problem."
"Oh?"
"It's not serious yet, but it's getting there fast."
"The news blackout," Marshall said flatly.
"Right," Halvorsen replied. "My people are getting very steamed up about it. After all, most of them have families back on Earth; they likely believe they're all dead of moon-plague."720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSJ4cuGtqNS
"I'm sorry about that," said Marshall, but nobody could come up with a better cover story, and so far it's worked. By the way, I met Luo Yiming at the Hyperion, and even he bought it."720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW0TMi1IFod
"Well, that should make P.L. (Polícia Lunar) happy."720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0iyxWfMsti
"Not too happy--he'd heard of ALT-1; rumors are starting to leak out. But we just can't issue any statement, until we know what the damn thing is and whether our Chinese or Indian friends are behind it."720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKSFHN0gvAQ
"Dr. Michaels thinks he's got the answer to that. He's dying to tell you."720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsulILioveg
Marshall drained his glass. "And I'm dying to hear what he's got to say. What're we waiting for?"720Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlig9HGLiOz
